The Lords of Ambros
by LordofAmbros
Summary: In the wake of the Collapse came the Dark Age: a time when our civilization descended into feudalism once more. Those chosen by the Traveler's Ghosts now rule over Earth's territories as brutal Warlords. This tale focuses on the struggle between the Iron Lords and the Lords of Ambros as each order aims to expand its influence over the future of the Risen, humanity, and their home.
1. Two Storms and One

Preface: Amateur writer, never written fanfiction before, did this on a whim. My apologies if it is utter garbage.

 _Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 **Chapter 1, Part 1**

Four figures could be seen in the grand throne-room of the ancient Neoclassical mansion that now served as the capitol of the Kingdoms of Ambros. Two of these figures, members of the Royal Guard, were clad in worn armor of black leather with contrasting pads of white upon their joints. Each was armed with an arsenal of various knifes, all sharpened expertly, which were sheathed all about their person. A hooded cloak of plain white dragged along the marble floor behind each, but their hoods were down, and neither wore a helmet. Both were men of considerable stature, slim and spry. They dragged a third between them.

This third individual, their prisoner, was a smaller man clothed in filthy garments of dark blue. His pale face was smeared with dirt, his once-bright eyes now a dull blue, and he was thinner than one might consider to be healthy. His hands were bound behind him with thick ropes, and each guard grasped a forearm. The man winced in pain as his captors dropped him on the cold stone.

Before them was the fourth and final occupant of the chamber. He was of respectable height, lean, and had skin that was, perhaps, whiter even than the marble from which his home was built. His eyes glowed a bright golden hue, and his silvery pupils were nigh imperceptible. He was clothed in robes of shimmering gold, and he sat upon a throne of flowing marble, which seemed to rise up from the very same stone as the ground around it, without the slightest gap whatsoever. A thin Spanish saber laid across his lap; a relic from before the Golden Age.

"This here is Anderson, Lord Ikoris", informed one of the guards.

"Anderson, you say?" the Awoken inquired.

"Yes, sir. Rich Anderson."

"I see."

He looked down to address the prisoner. "And are you, Mr. Anderson-may I call you Richard?"

The man sat in sullen silence, staring blankly at the ground. One of the guards struck him cruelly in the side with his elbow. The man grunted, feeling a rib give way, and fell to the side. The other guard caught him before pulling him back into a kneeling position.

"Name's Rich, sir, whole thing. Just Rich", he responded finally. He never looked up from the cold stone of the ground.

"Splendid. So, Richard, are you the man that I am looking for, or is this just some unfortunate misunderstanding?"

Anderson made as if to remain silent again, but-feeling the guard to his left tense up once more in preparation to deal a fresh blow-he eventually gave in and replied. "That would depend, sir."

"Is that so? And what exactly, Richard my fellow, would that depend on?"

"Well, who's the guy that you're searchin' for, and what'd he do?"

"Oh, he's nobody important, really. Just some miserable wretch who decided to start a rebellion within my domain, burned an archive, and conspired with those damned Wolves before he was captured and brought back as my prisoner."

"Mm", Anderson grunted in acknowledgement.

"Sounds familiar, does he?"

"I reckon so."

"And, Richard, might you possibly have any idea of his whereabouts?"

"No, sir. Haven't seen 'em."

"Oh", the man on the throne frowned, looking a little disappointed. "That's too bad."

He motioned to one of the chamber's side doors, and it swung inward slowly. Behind it stood another Royal Guard member, and before him were three bound figures: a woman, no older than her early thirties, and two young boys-one no more than ten, and the second several years his brother's elder. All three were thin, sickly, and clothed in rags.

"We wouldn't want to escalate things further, now would we, Richard?"

Anderson stared toward his family, his mouth agape, before turning to the throne once more.

"You son of a bitch! Let them go! Take me, but let them go. Please, by the Light, let them go..." he finished sobbingly.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong, Richard, but are you saying that you _do_ know of my target's whereabouts?"

"He's right here, damn you. I'm right here", Anderson responded, still sobbing.

"I suspected as much", Ikoris said gravely, smiling slightly. Anger and hatred filled his eyes. "It's very fortunate that you did not continue your little charade of pride. Things might have gotten a bit...messy."

The younger boy burst into tears. The other sat silently, his face expressionless as he stared at the old columns of the room, never looking at either his father or the Awoken man on the throne. There had been rebellions before. He knew what would happen. He was thirteen.

"You rotten bastard!" Anderson screamed at Ikoris. "They didn't do nothin'! Let 'em go!" He struggled against his bonds. The guard to his left struck him again. He coughed and slouched to the side before being hoisted upright once more.

"That's quite alright, Richard. I will let them go, in time, just as I am releasing you now."

"What?" Hope began to return to his eyes. The others were silent.

"You heard me. I am a Chosen, my friend. We are not all selected for our dashing looks. We can be benevolent, when circumstances permit. I will release you...if you provide me with the names and whereabouts of your fellow traitors."

"Why, you...no! Never! You're no "Chosen", you're a butcher! A tyrant! I'd be ten times the Chosen that you'll ever be, if I got the chance!"

"Is that so?" Ikoris asked, grinning darkly.

"Yeah. That's so."

"Well then. Prove it."

"Wha...why...how?", Anderson stammered.

Ikoris grasped the saber lightly and stood, never allowing his eyes to leave his captive. Anderson's son continued to weep, and was now joined by his mother as well. The elder brother did not seem to know where he was.

The Awoken slowly advanced toward Anderson, dragging his blade across the stone behind him. It made a light metallic scream against the marble.

"Long ago", he began slowly, continuing his advance. "The Traveler created the Ghosts." He held out his empty palm, and a small spherical drone in an ornate shell materialized above it in a flash of blue light. "Each seeks one of the Traveler's Chosen to resurrect. In the years since the Fall, many have accomplished this goal. Yet some haven't." He stood directly in front of Anderson now, saber in hand. "Go out and find one", he said coldly. Then he drew the blade across the man's throat in one lightning-fast motion.

Ikoris watched grimly as the blood gathered upon the cold stone in a pool of crimson. The guards let go of the corpse, and it slumped to the floor. The younger boy and the widow wailed. The elder stared at the blood.

"Sir, what should we do about the other rebels, and this body?" asked one of the guards.

"Gather the others, and their families. Kill all of the men, and every boy over twelve. Burn the corpses, and scatter their ashes to the wind. The Lords of Iron gather on our borders. We shall meet them at dawn."

 **Chapter 1, Part 2**

"Are we there yet?" Roak questioned wearily. It was the fourth time that he had asked this in less than half an hour. Neither of his companions glanced backward to see him wading clumsily through the brush behind them. His movement was perfectly audible.

"You know, for Gheleon's apprentice, you are really quite loud", Lord Felwinter commented, ignoring the question. While it was unusual for a scholar such as him to volunteer for a scouting mission, Felwinter had practically demanded that he be sent along with them. For him, the conquest of this sector in particular was of the utmost importance.

"I'm just saying", Roak began, "We left the others hours ago, we've held a steady, grueling pace, we haven't turned from our course once, and we _still_ haven't gotten there yet? Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Yes", Gheleon said flatly. "We've come here before. I know the way."

With that, Roak dropped the subject. Gheleon was strange, but he was an expert frontiersman, and his judgement on the matter was not to be questioned.

"Fine, we aren't there yet. Got it. But can you at least tell me why this Icarus guy is so important? Why would Lord Radegast want to send a whole host of us out here in the middle of nowhere for one Warlord? We've never come this far west before", Roak rambled in frustration, not really expecting a response.

"He isn't important", Gheleon stated. "He's crazy."

"And as for Radegast, _he_ didn't want to send any of us after Ikoris. I insisted. Our order is not a dictatorship, you know", Felwinter added.

"Wait, you _wanted_ to come out here? Why? This place stinks!" Roak complained.

"I did not _want_ to come here, but it was necessary."

"And why is that? Gheleon said himself that this Icibus guy isn't important!"

"That's _Lord_ Gheleon to you, Young Wolf. And-while I do not wish to undermine the authority of my fellow Iron Lords-on that matter, Lord Gheleon is mistaken. While Ikoris is indeed crazy, he is still a serious threat to us. His influence has been spreading at an alarming rate. Our informant tells us that he has absorbed the domains of three more Warlords in the past year. He is a plague upon this land, and he must be stopped before it is too late."

"Ooh! We have an _informant_? Like a spy? That sounds nice. Must be a heck of a lot more exciting than trudging through empty wastes all day..." Roark said excitedly.

"Yes...well, we _did_ have an informant. Now, however, we do not", Felwinter answered solemnly.

"Oh...what happened?"

"His name was Anderson, a common man in the lands under Ikoris's rule. He was brave, determined, and a man of high values. That was likely his downfall. Do you remember that old outpost a few miles back, Roak?" Roak nodded an affirmative. "Well, there was an Iron Lord stationed there. A frontiersman, much like Lord Gheleon here." Gheleon grunted. "His name was Velith. We found his corpse rotting in the weeds outside. He was killed by a sniper. Anderson had been sheltering with him, but he was nowhere to be found when we got there. We pulled what we could from Lord Velith's ghost. Anderson was taken by Ikoris's men. He is dead", Felwinter said this last statement as if it were indisputable fact.

"How can you be so sure? What if he's still out there? How could you abandon your allies like that?" Roak questioned pointedly.

"I've had dealings with Ikoris before. Anderson is dead." There was a note of finality in Felwinter's tone, and Roak did not push any further on the subject.

They plodded on across the gray tundra, walking in silence for nearly an hour longer before reaching a small, ancient station that marked the start of the Kingdoms of Ambros. They stood atop a small ridge, staring down upon the structure, which rested amidst a grassy plane. The gray hulks of mountains rose in the distance.

The structure itself was an old transmission station-perhaps for radio, cell phones, or any other of the numerous forms of remote communication that were so prominent before the Collapse. A crumpled metal spire stood atop the two-storied outpost, but only the base remained in-place and intact. The rest had long since toppled to the Earth and been overgrown with weeds.

The door of the building was closed, and between their party and the structure stood a wall of rusted iron paneling. This barrier-still several hundred meters out-denied entrance to all, except those who went by way of an old makeshift gate, which was offset to the west of the outpost by some distance. A dirt path wound through the gate and toward the station's door, while another branched off and went north.

Two weathered banners were draped from the wall, facing outward. Each was of a yellowish hue, which may once have been gold. Upon this background rose a four-pillared facade, resembling the Greek temples that were erected millennia before the Traveler's arrival. Each banner read "I gi ton Theón". "The Land of the Gods".

 **Chapter 1, Part 3**

Their host had marched for countless hours, and now-just as dusk was setting in, and Sol began to descend past the horizon-it was finally time for them to rest. They had not stopped the night before, nor the one prior to that. They had simply carried on in the darkness as they had in the light.

It wasn't that they needed to rest-Risen never _needed_ to rest-but they certainly _wanted_ to. It was refreshing. It cleared the mind, gave them time to think things through. Until now, there had been little strategizing; there had been only blind advance.

As the Iron Lords erected their campsite, and the last moments of dusk faded to the gloom of night, they saw the fires. The Warlord who ruled over this sector, a vain old fellow by the name of Garamont, had promised them men to bolster their numbers. He had given his men because he was afraid; afraid of the wrath of the Iron Wolves, yes, but moreso afraid of his neighbors: the Lords of Ambros. He knew that, unless they were stopped, his land would be absorbed into their domain. And, of course, he would be forced to bend to their will-or be broken by their fury. These fires, Silimar knew, likely belonged to Garamont's men.

"The damned fools!" Silimar yelled to nobody in particular. Their assault was meant to be a surprise. Several Lords resting nearby stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to elaborate. He did not. He simply stared at the distant pillars of smoke, and they followed his gaze. As they too noticed the fires, they sighed in irritation. The night was ruined.

"Halt!" Silimar boomed out across the camp. The others, while entirely astonished at the sudden command, stilled without hesitation. "Change of plans! Tomorrow, we fight! Tomorrow, we die! But tonight, we build!"

A collective groan sounded across the campsite, and they all hurried to gather stones. "Again?" one of them asked in a high-pitched, annoyed tone.

"Yes, Wilhelm, again. Scoff now, but you will be glad to have a defensible position at your back when the fighting starts. Now build, I tell you! We've no time to waste! I want a wall there, of the biggest stones you can find. And there must be a tower here, and another to the east. Spare no labor! We cannot allow the enemy to pass this line!"

Silimar issued orders through the night, and the other Lords reluctantly followed them. A fortress slowly rose around them, and their Ghosts flashed on and off through the hours of darkness like so many fireflies in the moonlight.

 _Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 **Chapter 1, Part 4**

Perseus hurried about the small house where he and his family lived, gathering his supplies. He had never fought against any Chosen before. He had never needed to. But he had heard the stories-new and old-, and he knew that he would need to be fully prepared if he were to have any chance of surviving the coming days.

Though he appeared outwardly calm and determined, his concern was evident in the things that he carried with him. Four blades were sheathed at his belt: A shock dagger, initially belonging to a long-dead Fallen dreg; an ancient yet highly useful Bowie knife, which he inherited from his father; and two other blades of ancient Grecian design. The first, known as a _Xiphos_ , was little more than a glorified dagger. The second, known as a _Kopis_ , was a single-edged cavalry sword, which he wore at his left hip. He had never so much as swung either of these; they had been mounted upon his wall for years, untouched. Why he needed a cavalry sword, Perseus had no clue. These last two blades were mass-produced by Lemnos, the weapons foundry of the Kingdoms of Ambros, and were given to every man in the unified territories upon his turning sixteen. This was considered a great honor, meant to show the favor of their benevolent overlord Ikoris. In reality, Perseus knew, it was simply because their gracious leader was a sucker for thematic unity. His theme of choice was Ancient Greece, for some reason.

Aside from these close-quarters weapons, Perseus owned two rifles. The first was his hunting-rifle, a weapon that was likely nigh upon a century in age. The guns antiquity was made all the more evident by the fact that its design mimicked those rifles that had been used half a millennium ago. His second rifle, however, was entirely opposite to the first. It was sleek, modern, and had never been fired. It was a _Fated Odyssey 49_ -model scout-rifle, forged in the fires of Lemnos: the self-proclaimed "Forge of the Gods". Inscribed upon its shimmering side was a short phrase: "When your ship sets sail upon Ill-fortune, may yours be the patron amidst the Gods". It was only gibberish to Perseus, of course, but it brought him comfort nonetheless.

Seeing that everything was in order-and that he had only enough room on his person for a single gun-he returned his hunting rifle to its case, donned his cloak, and threw the door wide. His first thought was that it looked like it might rain. His second thought was interrupted when he ran directly into his wife, who stood before the open door. Their son, a boy of twelve who shared the same name as his father, stood behind her. Both of their faces were streaked with tears.

Perseus' wife scurried inside, forcing him back into the house. "Run along to your room, Percy.", she said, her voice a soft whisper. The boy did as he was told. She shut the door quickly behind her.

"What's going on", she demanded, her face-while still showing great sorrow-became stern and commanding.

"I'm leaving", Perseus stated flatly.

"Why? Why must you go _now_? Something is happening, Percy. They're rounding people up. Taking them somewhere. Killing them. Burning them. I can smell it in the air."

"I know", he replied.

"Well, what is it? What are they doing?" she asked frantically, knowing the answer but not wanting it to be true.

"I don't need to tell you that. You already know. It has happened before, and we knew that it would come soon."

"No, Percy. No. Not here. Not again. It can't be. Rich, he said last week that it wouldn't happen this time, that they didn't know who it was."

"Yes, Catherine. Here. Again. Rich was wrong. They found out...somehow. Rich is dead", he said coldly. He was not saddened by this fact-he had expected it. Anderson was a traitor, and he would die as a traitor should.

"How can you be so sure? And what of the others, and their families?" Catherine asked.

"He is dead, or he will die soon. They all will. Their widows and their children will have their rations cut, and they will starve. This is as it has always been. You know these things."

"No. We can't let them starve, Percy. We've got to help them. We've got to! His boy is friends with our Percy, you know", she said with tears in her eyes.

"His boy was Percy's age?"

"Yes. A little older", she confirmed.

"Then he is dead."

"No!" she cried.

"Yes", he said in the same matter-of-fact tone as before.

"Oh, we can't tell Percy!" she sobbed.

"He knows. The boy is no fool."

"Don't call him that", Catherine said, growing angry.

"Call him what?" Percy questioned in confusion.

"You called him 'the boy', as if he isn't your son. He is, and he needs you right now, Percy. He needs you."

"Yes, he is. I'm sorry. I've got to go, Catherine", Percy replied, showing no emotion.

"Where are you going? And why do you have all of these weapons? You can't fight them, Percy. You can't! Not on your own. Not like this!" she yelled nervously.

"I'm not going to fight them. I'm going to fight _for_ them. An invasion is coming."

"What? No. No, don't. Is it the Fallen? Don't leave us, Percy. We can't survive against them by ourselves", she said quietly.

"It isn't the Fallen. It's some other Warlords. They want to conquer us, to subjugate us. I won't let them", Percy replied.

"Other Warlords! Percy, that's much worse. Please, you can't fight their kind. They're too powerful. They'll kill you..."

"I can fight them, and I will. Many of the Lords are going with us. It will please them, Catherine. They will reward us for our loyalty. That's what they need from us right now; loyalty", Percy explained.

"Oh, for the Traveler's sake! Is that all you can think of? Pleasing _them_? That's all you do, Percy, please them", she spouted.

It was true, of course. In-fact, his very _name_ was an attempt to please them. When Lord Ikoris had conquered their sector nearly a century ago, Percy's grandfather had been the first child born under their new king. Wanting to remain in good favor with Ikoris, his parents had asked him to name the child. He had chosen the name Perseus, and so the child had been named. Seeing as there had not yet been any change of leadership, and their master had not declined in mental awareness thus-far, each successive generation had elected to pass the name to their children rather than risk insulting him.

Noting the validity of his wife's observation, he dropped the loyalty argument. "They'll double our glimmer ration, maybe even triple it. We could use that kind of help. We could feed Mrs. Anderson and her other kid, and we'd still have plenty left over.", he reasoned.

"No, Percy", Catherine said. There was a note of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes. I'm leaving. Goodbye", Perseus said, ending the discussion. Then he kissed her lightly, turned, and walked out into the rain.

 _Time to get a horse_ , he thought at first. And then: _I'm going to die._

 **Chapter 1, Part 5**

He was, Garamont might have said-had he ever mustered the courage to utter such things-, as a ship tossed between the fury of two vast tempests. At this very moment, he noted, these storms were closing in: one from the east, and one from the west. He wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath a stone and allow them to clash while he rested in peace. But he could not.

He did not side with either force in the coming struggle, and neither of these forces truly sided with him. One called themselves gods, and the other thought themselves saviors. They were all tyrants.

To the west, there was Ikoris and his stately order of butchers. Always killing, conquering, spreading. The walls of their territory shifted constantly, but never in retreat. Always in advance.

To the east, there were the Wolves. What was the old saying? "Beware of wolves in sheep's clothing"? Yes. Beware; for they were wolves indeed. They came here from their distant citadel, bearing offerings of peace unto his land. But they did not want peace. Their creed was this: Join...or die. And so they did, one by one. Now, it was his turn. _Join, or die_. And so he would die.

He had sent five scores of his men to the border, to appease the wolves. They had wished to infiltrate Ambros quietly, to reach deep into the heart of the territory before being discovered. To appease his men, he had gone with them. He had seen to it that they set many fires-to draw the attention of Ikoris' sentries. He had orchestrated events in an attempt to gather both armies in the same place; as close to his reach as possible, should something go astray. Once this was done, his men were to remain out of the fray, only contributing as much to the battle as was necessary to preserve the charade of their alliance. The Wolves expected them to fight. When the fighting had slowed, and only a handful from either group remained standing, they would begin the real work.

Once the Risen posed a minimal threat to himself and his men, Garamont would order the survivors to be extinguished. With their numbers diminished, and their advances crushed, he might just get a brief respite from the constant threat of conquest. It was not a noble approach to the situation, of course, but his plight was a desperate one. He had sat idly by for too long. Now he must fight back.

A clap of thunder stirred him from his musings, and lightning flashed across the sky. As dawn neared, the first drops of rain descended upon them. A third storm was gathering.

 **End of Chapter 1**

 _Please do not hesitate to offer questions, criticism, or comments of any kind. As stated, I am new to fanfiction, and I would love to hear your thoughts on my work._


	2. Clash of Tempests

_Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 **Chapter 2, Part 1**

The wind upon the dead grasses howled with growing strength, and lightning filled the twilit sky. The clouds, however, had yet to yield the promised fury of a sweeping flood. Similarly, a second storm was stilled in temporary calm.

Ikoris stood-unarmed-atop an outcropping of pale stone, jutting high above the surrounding tundra. He surveyed the scene beneath him in silent indifference. All about him was a sea of bodies, composed of both the living and the ancient dead. Each of them looked to him expectantly. He did not notice.

In all, there were eighty-two of them: himself, seven of his fellow Chosen, and a number of civilians who had armed themselves and taken up with his company as they rode to battle. They were vastly outnumbered. Ikoris did not care.

He had set out from his throne in New Olympus with only two others-Saramyr and Celebryth, the two nearest members of his Guard. Others had seen them, of course, as they sped down the streets of his city, and much of his Guard had followed. He had not ordered them to, nor had he objected. In-fact, he had not spoken a single word to his followers since they had set out. The truth was, he did not care if any of them fought with him. It was utterly inconsequential, for he knew that-regardless of circumstance-he would emerge victorious. He knew this, because he had asked.

As the moon dropped toward the western horizon, and the sun's rays to the east signaled the coming dawn, Ikoris descended from his perch and walked to his horse. The creature whinnied softly in greeting, and he pressed the pallid skin of his palm to the fur of its broad forehead.

The steed was of the _Andravida_ variety, descended from the great warhorses of ancient Athens, and-due to its coloration-was a rare specimen even within the context of an already rare breed. Its coat was a solemn gray in color, speckled with white, and its mane was a shimmering black. He had named it " _Eklektos_ ", meaning " _Chosen_ ", because its plight was not unlike his own. It was an altogether magnificent and loyal beast: the best of all his herds, and the only of its line in his possession. Ikoris pondered, for a brief moment, what a tragedy it would be for such an exceptional creature to be lost from the face of this Earth.

 _Extinction is a lamentable thing_ , he thought. _If only those fools could see it as we do, my dear friend. If only._ But they did not, they would not, and so they must die.

He swung into the saddle, clasped his saber at his side, and rode toward the rising sun. He did not announce his departure. He made no efforts to rally the men. He simply left in silence, and-without pause-, the others followed.

 **Chapter 2, Part 2**

Felwinter and the others watched as Ikoris and his men passed through the old gate, transitioning in one instant from an army of defenders to an invasion force. He did not need the aid of his companions' rifle-scopes to know that the Warlord had not hesitated in the slightest before committing such an act of aggression. He could picture all too clearly how Ikoris had simply sauntered across the border atop his noble beast, his face as expressionless and uncaring as that of a statue.

"Less of them than I thought", Felwinter observed.

"Smug bastard", Gheleon added.

There was a long silence. Ikoris and his men advanced slowly, and another figure emerged from the border outpost to join them. They were entirely silent, aside from the clatter of weapons and the plodding of hooves on the damp grass.

"Well", Roak whispered, "...aren't you gonna take a shot at him?"

"No", Gheleon replied after a brief pause.

" _Why not_?" he asked, clearly puzzled. Gheleon sighed.

"You have much to learn, Young Wolf", Felwinter commented.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Roak responded in irritation. "Do you think that _he_ would pass up a chance like this, if he ever got one?"

"Yes", Felwinter stated flatly. "Now, let's go. We must inform the others."

Roak hesitated, but when the others rose from their positions in the grass-now in full view of their adversaries, should they gaze in their direction-and walked down from the ridge's crest toward the camp, he reluctantly followed. The three towers of Silimar's hastily-erected fortress loomed far to the east of Garamont's encampment.

The Iron Lords were sprinkled throughout around the dying fires of the camp, generally in groups of three or four, carrying on their own conversations. They spoke of battle, of strategy, and of glory. Garamont's men spoke of their wives and their mothers, their crops, and-most of all-their children. The two groups did not intermingle. Garamont sat alone, resting on a stump near the camp's edge.

"They are coming", Felwinter announced, ending the low chatter instantly. The gathered warriors stared at him for several seconds before responding to this new information. Then, within moments of each-other, they all stood, gathered their weapons, and retreated to more ideal positions. Roak took up behind a small knoll, leaning against the mound and tossing a knife into the air absently. Felwinter, Gheleon, and Silimar did not retreat. They silently formed into a triangular formation, facing toward the ridge, with Felwinter at the point.

Ikoris crested the hill first, alone, atop a graceful gray stallion. After several seconds, two more riders emerged from the other side, clothed in the usual garb of his Royal Guard. The mounts of these two were of less prestige than that of their king, but were nonetheless fine specimens. The three riders aligned into a formation identical to that of the triad of Iron Lords before them, stopping less than ten yards away from their rivals.

"Hello, Felwinter", Ikoris boomed. "How nice of you to stop by."

 **Chapter 2, Part 3**

"Cease with the niceties, Ikoris", Felwinter replied coldly. "They serve no purpose-aside from postponing more important matters, that is."

"Serious as ever, I see", Ikoris commented. "I suppose you are right, though; we've more pressing matters to attend to. So, in accordance with your eagerness, might I inquire to the nature of your unexpected visit?"

"You and I both know why I've come here", Felwinter said.

"It is said", Ikoris began, dismounting from his steed and slowly approaching Felwinter, "that only two kinds of visitors arrive, unannounced, in the black of night: beggars, and thieves." He was now mere feet from the Iron Lord, staring directly into the visor of Felwinter's helmet with piercing eyes. "So...which are you?"

Felwinter stood silently for a moment as he restrained his urge to snap the Warlord's neck. After a brief pause, he replied: "I am an ambassador, and this is my offer, such as I have presented you before: join us, turn over your sector and your subjects, and help us in our cause."

Ikoris laughed.

"So you are a beggar. And tell me, if I refuse, am I correct in assuming that you aim to take my lands by force?"

A fearsome shotgun of black and gold materialized in his hands. "Yes. If you refuse, you will be killed, and your sector will be absorbed into the Iron Lords' domain", Felwinter confirmed.

The Warlord laughed again, feigning merriment. His tone, however, was hollow, and his eyes were cold.

"A beggar _and_ a thief!" he announced to the surrounding men. "Most unusual. Of course, it is just what I have come to expect from you Wolves. You are no better than the rest of us."

Felwinter glared at him in silence, refusing to respond to the remark. Nearby, Roak fantasized about sending a bullet through the Awoken's skull.

"You know, Felwinter, we are not so different, you and I. We both possess great intellect, great pride, and a great purpose; a purpose that we would stop at nothing to fulfill. I wish to preserve, and you wish to kill. You would kill your own brothers, your own sisters, and you would watch as our Mother dies a slow and quiet death. You would sit idly by as all of Her knowledge slips into the Void and is lost forever, if only to serve those who you perceive to be innocent. You do not wish to deal in words or philosophies, because you are afraid. You know only how to kill, how to die, and how to rise and kill again-and you will go no further, because you are afraid. You are afraid of what you might discover, and, possibly, of what might discover _you_. I am here to tell you, my brother, that there is awhole world beyond what you have seen, and beyond what you care to see. There is a world beyond death. But you will never see it, because you are afraid."

"Ikoris", Felwinter said flatly in response.

"Yes, my brother?" Ikoris inquired.

"You're a damned fool, and you talk too much."

"Perhaps; and you are a traitor. Which of our sins is the graver?"

"Yours", Felwinter replied. A shot rang out across the plains, and the Warlord's body flew backward, landing in a heap before his horse. The beast reared back in surprise before dashing away to the south. Thunder shook the ground, and the rain suddenly poured from the clouds in drenching sheets.

 **Chapter 2, Part 4**

A barrage of fire leapt from the high ridge an instant after Felwinter's own shot was fired, forcing the Exo and his companions to scramble for cover. Ikoris was up seconds later, slowly advancing toward an Iron Lord who was hunkered behind a large rock. The Warlord's form was temporarily engulfed in a flash of light. When the light faded, Ikoris was clad in robes of silver and red. A proud, shimmering helm concealed his face, and a brilliant silver ring clasped his forearm.

A burgundy scout-rifle appeared in his hands, and he began firing as he walked. Each round from his weapon took a small chunk from the stone's face, and the Risen behind it was pinned by the combined fire of the Warlord and his followers. A number of projectiles struck Ikoris as he pushed toward his target, but each of them broke against his weakening shields.

The men of Ambros abruptly ceased their hail of bullets as they paused to reload. Their adversaries gained confidence from the brief respite, and many broke from cover. Ikoris was mere feet from his destination when a figure vaulted into the air and landed behind him. He whirled around, grasping his gun by the barrel, and struck the attacker in the helmet. Without hesitation, he released the weapon. His saber flashed from its scabbard, and he split the Iron Lord's exposed neck with unfathomable speed. Crimson flooded over the ancient blade, and an orb of metal and light blinked into existence above the warrior's corpse. The Warlord's hand flew forward, palm fanning outward, and the Ghost turned to ash. _Twenty-two._

The Lords of Iron surged forward in unison, abandoning their temporary defenses. The sharp reports of their weapons mingled into a deafening symphony, and their foes fell before them. Many of the figures upon the hill's crest crumbled to the dust, riddled with simmering holes, only to be resurrected before the opportunity arose to extinguish their Ghosts. They had gained less than five yards before the returning fire became unbearable, and they were forced to retreat to more adequate cover. A select few of them continued to fire into the line of men upon the ridge, covering their allies' retreat.

Ikoris, his back pressed against the stone where his fallen opponent had sheltered, had been passed by his enemies' advancing line, prior to their retreat. He glanced over the rock as the Iron Lords withdrew across the plain. He was somewhat surprised to see a local amongst the Wolves. Garamont, the Warlord who ruled the very territory on which they fought, was positioned behind the irregular mass of Felwinter's host.

"Most unusual", Ikoris mused. "I'd have thought him to be cowering somewhere in a bunker...or beneath a nice moist rock, perhaps."

The figure of Garamont stood atop a short plateau, his tattered cloak plastered to his back in the rain. Behind him stood a sizable band of his men, equally drenched, who stood in a cluster. They had crept backward during the outset of the battle. Some of his fighters, however, had yet to reach their commander's position. Others lay in the dust.

Returning his focus to the matter at hand, Ikoris retrieved his rifle from the dirt, selected the nearest Iron Lord, and sighted in. Before he could fire, however, he heard the sudden roar of an inferno rise behind him, and his target was struck by a bolt of flame, reducing him to cinders. A second shot pierced through the storm-darkened sky, leaving a trail of steam in its wake before dropping a second wolf. A third struck amongst Garamont's ranks. Ikoris sent a rapid burst of projectiles at the first Lord's exposed Ghost, and it accepted them graciously. The bullets drove into the Ghost's shell, and it dropped to the ground, where it lay broken and battered in the mud. _Twenty-one._ , the Awoken told himself.

 **Chapter 2, Part 5**

This had been a mistake, Felwinter decided; a catastrophic miscalculation. And it would cost them dearly. In fact, it already had. By the time their line had withdrawn to the second covered position, they had already lost a dozen of Garamont's men, as well as four of their own. They were gone. Dead, never to rise again; their Light extinguished forever.

Despite these losses, they had managed to thin the opposing army's numbers significantly. They had not, however, been able to remove a single Risen from within their ranks. Each time one of Ikoris' "Chosen" died, another rose to protect their comrade's Ghost, and they were back into the fray within seconds.

The forces of Ambros advanced, pushing forward as a solid mass of bodies. It was Silimar who ordered the second retreat; this time to his makeshift fortress. This would be their final defensible position, whichever way the tide of the battle turned. Those walls of stone would see them to defeat, retreat, or-hopefully-victory.

Upon receiving the command, two Wards went up. Their creators had volunteered to stay behind and cover the withdrawal. Knowing what such an act entailed, each passing Lord or Lady offered a somber farewell to their companions, promising that songs of their courage would echo through the ages.

Two more Iron Lords were downed by sniper fire before reaching the walls of their refuge. One could not be saved. As a steady stream of Risen and men flowed into the thin entrance of the fortress, Felwinter-now less than ten yards from safety-stopped to gaze backward. Ikoris and his host crept forward at a steady pace, and Felwinter saw the Wards of his doomed fellows, like tiny islands of iridescent Light before a great wave of darkness. He watched as the wall of bodies reached the shields, swarming around them like a sea of insects. The thunderous report of a shotgun sounded across the flats, and then the constructs of Light burst in rapid succession. The enemy ranks approached once more, leaving the corpses of the Wolves in their wake. Four other bodies lay broken about them; he could not discern much about those that his men had felled, but they were young.

 _Traveler forgive us._ , Felwinter whispered to himself. Then, tearing his eyes from the horrid sight, he turned and made for shelter.

Silimar's fortress was a rather small structure, considering its purpose. The walls-rising only twenty feet from the flat expanse of the tundra-were loosely-fitted barriers composed of the heavy, weathered stones that dotted the wastes of this region. The path of the battlements was narrow and uneven, and the vacant entrance housed no banners, no imposing archway, not even a gate of timber; it was simply slender enough to be easily guarded. The towers that occupied three of its four corners were squat and graceless, and the courtyard was little more than a crowded enclosure of bare dirt and mud. It wasn't much, but it would determine the outcome of this conflict.

A low rumble drifted across the plain. At first, it was mistaken for the furious voice of the storm, which they had grown accustomed to as of late. Yet, as the sound grew in intensity, the Iron Lords paused to locate the source. It began as a soft, distant sound, but-once Felwinter and his brethren took notice of it-the source had drawn much closer. Following their ears, they gazed back in the direction from which they had fled. There, descending the ridge where the fighting had begun, were two hulking masses of pallid steel and cold fury. These machines rolled toward the fortress with surprising speed, quickly gaining on Ikoris and his host. Then, with sudden, practiced precision, they both stopped in the same moment. The barrels of their guns were alight with the glow of blue fire, and the air hummed with energy and anticipation.

 _Tanks._ , Felwinter informed himself, in a disbelieving, defeated tone. _He has tanks._ This was true.

Thunder sounded from the main guns of the two tanks, echoing across the tundra and drowning out the cries of the tempest above. The Iron Lords watched in horror as two missiles shot forth from the menacing constructs of war, whistling through the air, before slamming into the towers of their citadel and piercing the outer wall before exploding on the structures' interiors. Heavy stones and clouds of dust rained from the towers as they collapsed, raining down upon those below. The machines advanced.

Then came the screams. These were not, as one might expect at a time such as this, the organic screams of the dying and the damned. These screams were shrill and metallic, like the wailing of a mechanized banshee. These screams promised death, destruction, and defeat.

For a brief moment, Felwinter pondered what horrors these new sounds might precede. His curiosity was soon sated, and he watched in terror as a dozen blades of steel sliced through the air above him. The shimmering disks whirled across the sky with ferocious speed and intensity, flying toward their destination with great purpose. Then, grinding against the stone, they embedded themselves within the outer wall before detonating. Blinding bursts of flame sprouted up where the blades had been, and hot specs of rock and molten steel arced through the air.

Felwinter, in a burst of purpose that was equal parts fury and despair, launched himself into the air and released an orb of purple Light toward the war machines. The ball shot over the tundra in a high, slow arc, before landing by the nearest tank. The attack had impacted just short of the vehicle's armor plating. Despite this, the front of the tank was obliterated by the blast, which burned with the intensity of a collapsing star. Armor and guns alike turned to molten slag before quickly evaporating, and wisps of steam rose from the simmering edges.

The remaining tank continued its advance for a brief spell before a small team of Iron Lords dashed from their shattered defenses and rushed toward it. All but one of them fell beneath the torrent of hot lead released from the tank's secondary guns. As the surviving member neared the machine, he leapt to the earth before it with his arms outstretched. The Lord struck the ground with great force, and a wave of electricity discharged from his clenched fists. Upon reaching the object of its fury, the wave swept underneath the vehicle, and it was lifted into the air. The tank released a heavy, grinding sigh before landing upside-down and beginning to sink into the soft mud. A Risen transmatted from the doomed machine in a flash of light and began to exchange fire with his assailant.

A sharp report emanated from the remaining tower of the fortress, and the tank pilot collapsed to the mud with a clean hole blasted through his torso. The downed Risen's Ghost materialized above his corpse, and was promptly rent apart by the blast of a shotgun. A hail of fire sailed from the advancing ranks of Ikoris' forces, and the Ghost was quickly avenged.

Several more of the Warlord's fighters fell before reaching the crumbling walls of the Iron Lords' fortress, but those who remained sent forth a continuous barrage of projectiles, and their adversaries broke before them. Garamont and his men, who had positioned themselves upon the fortress' walls, used their ammunition sparingly. Then, just as the tide of battle began to turn in favor of Felwinter and the dwindling ranks of his colleagues, the local defenders opened fire with renewed vigor.

 **Chapter, Part 6**

"Now!" Garamont barked to his men. Sprays of bullets flew from atop the wall, pouring down upon all those gathered below. The courtyard was soon littered with corpses. Some rose again, others did not.

Initially, the scene was utter confusion. After a few moments, Garamont's own ranks slowly began to thin as his prey returned fire. Upon evaluating the situation, however, both hosts of warriors began hasty retreats. Iron Lords and Warlords alike poured over the low walls of rock, like fleas escaping from a flaming dog. Those who did not possess the ability to hurtle the walls began to withdraw through the breaches where they had entered, and soon all were in flight. Still, as their brethren-in-arms fled for the hills, many lay-cold and lifeless-in the mud of the courtyard. An array of half-a-dozen Ghosts hovered above the ground, emitting steady pulses of Light. Then, Garamont began his work.

Hefting a shotgun upon his shoulder, the Warlord strolled down from his perch and entered the courtyard. He approached the nearest Ghost, leveled the barrel of his weapon at the black orb in its center, and fired. He casually approached the next corpse, leveled, and fired. The third time, however, he waited. A burst of light flashed before him, and a tall figure materialized. He fired, killing the Risen once more, and then blasted the Ghost into oblivion just as it reappeared.

Garamont turned to the next Ghost-one of only two remaining-and watched as the glowing form of its Risen formed above it. The distance between them was too great for him to continue with his current method, so he changed tactics. The other Risen, now standing across the courtyard and wielding a rifle, had just begun to fire at him. Garamont's hand flashed to a holster at his hip, and he brandished a heavy russet revolver. The Warlord prowled in a slow circle about the enclosure and began to fire upon his opponent. Light rounds nicked the armor of his head and torso, but his shields had not yet broken when the other fell to the soggy ground. Garamont rushed to his enemy's Ghost and emptied the remainer of his ammunition into its center, watching as shards of its shell broke away with each impact.

There was only a single Ghost left, and he stalked toward it with caution.

 _Strange._ , Garamont mused, _Should have resurrected by now._

Reaching the small drone, he stopped to examine it. The shell was a shimmering, metallic gold in color, and was divided into three sections: one on the top half, and two on the bottom. Each of these sections bore a symbol. The largest portion was engraved with the depiction of a jagged lightning bolt. The other two displayed a trident and a two-pronged spear. Garamont could make nothing of these things, but-due to the elegance of the carvings and the body that lay beneath the Ghost-he discerned that it belonged to Ikoris. That gave him pause.

"Are you so arrogant that you believe I won't end you, Ikoris?" Garamont questioned the corpse. It was the only logical explanation as to why he hadn't resurrected yet. He stared into the eye of the Ghost, waiting for a response. Neither the drone nor Ikoris responded to his inquiry.

Garamont leveled his barrel at the Ghost and waited. His finger rested lightly upon the trigger. _What a shame._ , he thought to himself. _I would have liked to see your face as you die._

"You're no god", he said aloud. Then he pulled the trigger.

An explosion of blinding light erupted before him, and a stern hand gripped the cold barrel of his weapon, wrenching it from his grasp. He could not see, but he heard the rasp of metal on metal as Ikoris' saber left its scabbard. Then he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.

Slowly regaining his vision, Garamont lowered his eyes to stare at the cold blade that pierced his gut. Then he lifted his head to stare into the eyes of his killer. The Awoken's pale figure was wreathed in flame, and wings of fire sprouted from his shoulders. His face was alight with the smirk of victory, and his eyes burned with a sort of demeaning hatred. The sword withdrew from Garamont's body. _You sly bastard._ , he thought. Then the blade flashed upward, toward the light armor at his throat, and his head fell to the ground.

The men on the walls watched in horror as their leader was beheaded. They did not dare move, and they did not fire upon the rival Warlord who had defeated him. They simply stared as he extended his hand toward Garamont's Ghost, scooped it into his palm, and closed his fingers over its surface. The Ghost crumpled to ash within his flaming grasp, and he scattered the remains to the ground.

The men did not speak a word, did not offer any protest. They simply bowed in silence.

 **End of Chapter 2**

 _Please do not hesitate to offer questions, criticism, or comments of any kind. As stated, I am new to fanfiction, and I would love to hear your thoughts on my work._

 _Chapter 3 is in the works._


	3. Of Flames and Council

_Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 **Chapter 3, Part 1**

On a gray mountainside, a ring of solemn figures stood about a great fire. Staring silently into the dancing mass of flame, they contemplated their plight. The fire's glow cast them in a brilliant hue, reflecting off of smooth glassy visors, of golden ornaments, and raiments of leaf and ivory. None of them shifted or spoke. They simply pondered...and waited.

Their perch was of little strategic significance; it was a midpoint, a sharp ledge protruding from the gray slope of a mountain. But it was a place of council, of reflection, and of decision. They had gathered to decide the fate of their cause.

On a nearby peak stood the edifice that was their citadel, embedded within a natural rise of stone. Only its imposing facade could be seen: a wall of gray striped with shadow. It was their home-for now.

Beyond the chain of mountains, nestled within a colossal valley, was a disorderly camp of refugees. They sat, defenseless, beneath the hulking ruin of a shattered god. Therein lay the Iron Lords' quandary.

"We must protect the civilians, no matter the cost to ourselves", Radegast stated, breaking the silence. "They are the seeds of our future. It is they to whom we owe our allegiance; not the Traveler, not our order, _them_. The people. And it is to the people that Ikoris will now turn his gaze. He wishes to be with the Traveler...and the refugees stand in his way. Given the chance, he will not hesitate to destroy them-to lay waste to the last remnants of humanity. But we will not give him that chance."

"Radegast", one of the figures said, calling his attention.

"Yes, Jolder?", the Iron Lord inquired.

"What if he's dead?", she began. The others remained quiet, and so, motioning to Lord Felwinter, she continued. "You heard what Felwinter said: it was a massacre. We lost many of our own, surely Ikoris' force fared similarly."

Each of the figures, save one, now turned to their leader in anticipation of a response. Felwinter stared blankly into the flames.

"It is true that the Lords of Ambros may have lost much of their offensive capabilities, but we cannot deal in uncertainties. We must not wager the security of humanity's existence on blind hope. Ikoris may very well be dead, but he is not alone in his beliefs. There will always be tyrants, and the death of one will not change that."

"No...it won't. But Ikoris is not dead", Felwinter said flatly, never lifting his eyes from the fire. The others looked to him, wary of the certainty in his voice. "Before the battle...he spoke of a world beyond what we could see. He said that there was a world beyond death. I called him a fool, but I've no doubt that he knew something we didn't. He is alive, and for that I am to blame."

For a spell, none spoke. Each of the gathered Lords and Ladies watched the crackling chaos of the flames, listened to the sounds of the night, and pondered their next move. Then, sensing that the quiet would persist indefinitely otherwise, Radegast addressed the council once more.

"So the Lord of Ambros lives. If this is true-as Lord Felwinter has assured us-, then Garamont is as good as dead. Ikoris is not one to accept defeat lightly, as we can ourselves attest, and the act of retreat surely dealt quite a blow to his pride. It is as likely as not that Garamont's stronghold has already been laid to waste. Assuming that this is indeed the case, his sector now rests within the clutches of Ikoris and his order. That places his domain in direct contact with our borders. Our buffer is gone, as is what little surprise we may have had to our benefit. Our action is no longer precautionary: it is imperative. You were right, Felwinter. I was a fool not to act sooner."

"You were no fool, Lord Radegast. You are our leader for a reason.", one of the figures offered.

"Now is no time for blind loyalty, Saladin. I am not infallible-none of us are. Therein is our only true wisdom: humility. We are not gods, nor do we entertain such an illusion, as our adversaries do. We are protectors, and we shall act accordingly. We will protect the people. We will be their defenders. We will be their guardians."

The council was ended, and its flame extinguished. Yet the night was not free of smoke. In the distance, an army of black columns marched into the air, and the cackling laughter of countless flames joined into a single chorus, smothering the calm sounds of nature and blotting out the stars. As the breeze swept across the land, it carried a single word: _Death._

 **Chapter 3, Part 2**

As the Iron Lords extinguished the flame of their council, the black clouds of a new inferno rose to the night sky. Leagues away, the house of Garamont lay in ash...and many more fires yet burned. Beside each blaze, soot-darkened faces watched as their loved ones, slaughtered and piled into heaps of cold flesh, crumbled and disappeared within the dancing flames.

Few cried. The crying had ceased long ago. They had been conquered nearly a week prior, and it was then that they had cried. They had known what to expect. The others, those who lived nearer to the lands of Ambros, the refugees, had told them. And they had listened.

First, of course, came the fighting. That was normal; they had always fought. They had no choice. Or so they had told themselves, at the time. Yet now, after their defeat, they began to doubt many things that had once been certain. Now, their conquerors said that there _had_ been a choice...and they had chosen poorly. They had chosen to commit what was, essentially, an act of deicide. In aiding the Wolves, they had endeavored to hinder those who sought to save their god; their protector; their savior. They had betrayed the Traveler.

For this, to their great astonishment, the people had received no punishment. But that only worsened the guilt. The Traveler had sacrificed Her consciousness for them, risked Her own life, and they had been ungrateful. At least, that's what Ikoris had said. He was a wonderful orator.

Having established the severity of their sin, Ikoris and His followers offered them a path to atonement. All that they must do, he said, was recite an oath. An oath of allegiance, to both the Lords of Ambros and to She who ruled even Them: the Traveler. As simple an act as this seemed, many refused. Those who did so now lay as smoldering piles of ash and bone.

Yet many more accepted the oath, with a little extra incentive. You see, Ikoris had a strange view of the bond between a man and his son. He believed that, as his heir, a son was apt to express complete and unwavering loyalty to his father. He saw no method with which to sever this bond, nor did he wish to have shifting loyalties within his ranks. Thus, should a man refuse his offer, he would not die alone.

"But I am not without mercy", Ikoris had said to them, after issuing this warning. "Should any man's son not exceed twelve years of age, his family will not be made to suffer undue grief. I am confident that those of lesser years hold a greater capacity for adaptation and understanding, and consequentially, they will be spared." This was not news to them either. Many people had been conquered by the warriors of Ambros, and the exact proceedings were no secret. As such, dozens of young men were sent away in the night, desperate to escape the coming wrath.

Others stayed, to fight for their freedom. Or, more accurately, to fight for familiar slavery. Garamont, having obtained his lands with flame and fury, was a self-proclaimed liberator. This was not entirely accurate. Garamont was no scholar; what he viewed as "freedom" was, in truth, little more than his own personal strain of tyranny. But indoctrination is an effortless process when those who perpetrate it have indoctrinated themselves, and the people viewed him with respect and reverence. With his death, they believed their freedom to be at stake. Some chose to act upon that belief.

The fighting was short. Three Chosen entered Garamont's land, and three would leave. The defenders, those either too young or too old to have accompanied Garamont's earlier host, were terribly ill-prepared for the fighting. Had they taken the time to consider if, the Chosen may have shown reluctance in slaughtering children. But when bullets fly, there is little time for thought. In the end, nearly a dozen defenders lay dead. The rest were swiftly executed, and the fires endured unto dawn.

 **Chapter 3, Part 3**

"...it is too soon, my Lord. We have suffered great losses, just as the Wolves; but they are still far greater in number. They have withdrawn from our sector. We should be grateful! We should rest!"

Glancing upward from his blade, which he had been sharpening absently for some time now, Ikoris stared around at the other Chosen gathered before him. He felt no anger at their objections, only annoyance.

"Rest, you say? You want _rest_? And what have we done for the last week, if not rest?"

"Well, don't be absurd!", the other Lord chuckled nervously. "Those were _funerals_!"

"Yes, they were. And you enjoyed them very much, did you not?", Ikoris questioned. He was growing weary of this particular individual's antics.

"Well yes, I suppose, but-", the other began hesitantly.

"Would you like another?", the Awoken interjected with mock excitement, not quite concealing the tone of malice in his voice. The other, sensing this, wisely remained silent.

"No? Then it is settled. I will convene, and then we shall march against Radegast and his traitors. We must strike while the iron is hot, and that time is now." With that, Ikoris stood, sword in hand, and walked from the room. The gathered Lords and Ladies sat silently, waiting. None dared to speak.

Then, as always, they heard the familiar thud of flesh on stone, and the tension broke. "This is absurd", one of the Warlords offered. Several others nodded. "He would rather seek council from his own subconscious than his colleagues."

"If I were him, I would too. He tends to agree with himself quite often. It is terribly easy to become convinced of what you already belief, and rather gratifying too.", another commented.

Of the eleven gathered in Ikoris' war-room, only four felt any true loyalty to their leader or his cause. The others sought only war and its spoils...not that greed had played any part in their joining the order; they had been given no choice, aside from exile.

They were not loyal to Ikoris, but that was not to say that they lacked respect. Even the Wolves held a degree of respect for the one true Lord of Ambros. He was unstoppable-their very presence here was a testament to that. But his greatest strength was also his direst weakness. He was destined for victory...and he knew it.

It was this sense of destiny that fueled Ikoris' personal ideology. He believed that the Risen were fated to save their Mother, and that he was to lead them. Recently, this belief had driven him to some extremes. Most notably, ordering a complete counter-offensive against the Wolves, to ensure their defeat and liberate the Traveler from their seeming indifference once and for all.

At the current moment, as he always does prior to major occurrences, Ikoris lies on the floor of his room. His saber, coated in crimson, is clasped at his side. He sheathed it in his final moments, as the blood drained from his dying veins.

He seeks council beyond fellowship.

He seeks wisdom beyond knowledge.

He seeks life beyond death.

And he shall find it.

 **End of Chapter 3**

 _I apologize for this chapter's being relatively short and insubstantial. Chapter 4 is in the works, and this seemed like the most logical place for a chapter break. I expect the next chapter to be uploaded within the week, though I shan't make any guarantees. As always, thank you for your time and interest, and do not hesitate to offer questions, comments, or criticism of my work._


	4. Sons of the Righteous

**Chapter 4, Part 1**

As dusk settled upon the tundra, the new refugees sought sanctuary beneath the stones of a shattered cliff-face. Several improvised shelters, composed of sticks draped with old tarpaulin, stood in the shadow of an enormous sheet of rock. It was freezing, and there were few heavy blankets, but no fires burned; it was too great a risk. They had avoided contact with the scavengers thus far, but they knew that this could not last. Fallen were everywhere. At least, that is what their fathers had said...but they were gone.

Their fathers had, presumably, all been executed for the same reason: refusing to bow to a tyrant. Yet here, among their sons, there are only two kinds of people-those who bow to a tyrant, and the tyrant himself.

Standing before the people of his camp, this new tyrant prepares to dole out his first sentence.

"I know what you're thinking", he stated with a thin veil of confidence. "You think that I'm being greedy. But I'm not. We have to have rules- _laws_. We will die without them. When nobody leads, nobody listens...and then we die." Pausing briefly, the tyrant waited for his subjects to process this information. "We have the most guns, my brothers and I, so we'll lead...and you will listen. This _thief_ stole from me, and he must pay. So here is your first law: no theft is, or should be, allowed in my camp. But what is a law without punishment, right? So here is the punishment."

With that, two of the speaker's brothers stepped forward and, each seizing a shoulder, forced the accused thief to his knees. The boy-worryingly thin, and much younger than his captors-closed his eyes in both fear and acceptance, knowing escape to be impossible. Having retrieved a hatchet from another of his siblings, the leader approached his prisoner. Stumbling in his haste to preserve the moment, he steadied himself against the small slab of rock directly before his victim.

"You'll be sorry, thief.", he whispered into the boy's ear, taking the opportunity presented by their unintentionally-close proximity. Then, snatching him by the wrist, the tyrant yanked the accused's arm across the stone and, holding it in place, hefted the small axe above his head. Flying in a downward arc, the hatchet struck flesh, severing the boy's arm at the wrist. Blood gushed forth from the wound, pouring over the stone and splattering upon the hatchet's wielder. Staring disbelievingly at the crimson stump of his wrist, the thief opened his mouth to scream.

Attempting to muffle the unanticipated shriek, the tyrant's hands clasped tightly over the boy's mouth. But it was too late. The agonizing cry, having escaped capture, now reverberated throughout the camp, and echoed into the night.

 **Chapter 4, Part 2**

Concealed within a gray thicket, Roak awakened with a start. He had heard something. Fallen, perhaps. Or wolves. A very excited arctic fox? He wasn't quite sure of the source, but he had heard, well, _something_. A call...or a scream...or...well, it could have been anything, really. He was still getting used to this whole "lone wolf" thing.

Emerging from his cover, the Iron Lord gazed upon the dimming sky. He had slept for little more than an hour. Sleep wasn't necessary, of course, but it was welcome. Everyone needed a break...unfortunately, his had met an untimely end. Now, he must investigate. Though neither Fallen nor wolves were relevant to his mission, there was a slight chance that the Ambrosians were somehow involved, and that was enough reason to pursue the matter.

"Ghost, report please", Roak requested, hoping to conclude his investigation in the swiftest manner possible.

Flashing into existence above its companion's shoulder, the small green-clad drone responded. "The source is close-due west less than a mile. Likely of human origin.

"Got it. Rest is for the dead. Thanks, universe", Roak complained. A dull golden rifle materializing in his grip, the Iron Lord forged ahead. Stalking westward with all the stealth he could muster, he focused on Lord Gheleon's lessons. Stay low; stick to cover; kill anything that sees you; stop breathing so loud. He must no longer think as a human. He must think as a wolf.

Dashing silently between pitifully bare shrubberies, tufts of dry grasses, and mounds of rock, the Lord of Iron advanced across the plain. Before him lay the fractured remains of a great precipice, scattered like a field of tombstones. A monolithic section of rock dominated the space, protruding from the ground at a notable angle and offering a commanding view of its surroundings. It was to this that Roak now set his aim.

Breaking from cover, he began to clamber toward the peak. Without the aid of Light, this would likely have been a slow and grueling process. With it, however, Roak stood upon the rock's summit in under a minute. It was from this perch that he first spotted the eyes.

"Ghost, we're surrounded", he grumbled in irritation. "What now?"

"We go below.", his Ghost responded without pause.

"But the motion sensors say-", Roak protested.

"Yes. I recommend that you arm yourself accordingly. Now let's get moving."

Dropping to the distant earth, the sensors in Roak's display flashed from a smattering of red to a wall of solid crimson. Noting this, he leveled the barrel of his rifle at the entrance, prepared to unleash fury upon his foes. Yet, peering into the twilit space beneath the overhang, he saw no Fallen. The scavengers' neon gazes were gone; in their stead, he found the frightened faces of children.

"What the...", he began, bewildered by his current predicament. The refugees stood silently, frozen with shock and fear. "What are you kids-", he tried once more, taking a step forward. Then, remembering his initial purpose, he began to turn. Less than ten degrees into his pivot, Roak's head disappeared in a flash of blue, and a metallic beam drove into the crowd. Guttural howls filled the night, and the children scattered. Many found shelter amongst jumbles of rock and other debris. Many did not.

Of the latter, most fled to the farthest reaches of their sanctuary. Yet some stood their ground, clustered about a prone figure. Speaking in whispers, the eldest of these began to issue commands.

"Tourniquet. He needs a tourniquet, and then we need to go", he stated, removing his shirt and wrapping it tightly around the unconscious boy's upper arm. Gathering the figure into his arms, he attempted to stand. Finding his own strength to be insufficient, the boy called to his companions. None came to his aid.

"Guys, where are you?", he asked, growing worried.

"Look...", one of the others said, his voice barely a whisper. Turning toward the sound, the older boy spotted the speaker. He stood several yards away, his face pale, pointing toward the entrance.

There, towering over the Warlord's headless corpse, stood the embodiment of their worst nightmares. Glaring at them from the waning light of dusk...was the figure of a Fallen captain.

Locking eyes with the creature, the boy rose to his feet. Grasping his wounded companion by the unaffected arm, he dragged him-ever so slowly-toward the others. The alien stepped forward, so he stopped. Leveling the flaming barrels of its gun at the boy's chest, the Fallen continued its slow advance, eventually passing from the light of Roak's exposed Ghost.

Now standing mere feet from the monster, the boy freed his hand and stood erect, glaring defiantly into the face of death. He stood as this, fully expecting a blast of hot shrapnel to pierce his lungs at any moment, for what seemed like hours.

Then his would-be killer lowered his weapon, slowly, and set it on the ground. The captain made a series of clicking noises, and two smaller Fallen entered the refuge. All three wore red capes. They were Devils-known for their exceptional savagery. They would enjoy this. Each of the smaller Fallen drew a blade, which crackled continuously with arcs of electricity. These were not swords, as one might expect. They were knives.

With great relish, their leader now reached to his waist, producing two full blades of otherwise identical appearance. Releasing a snarl, he surged forward, seizing the boy with his un-occupied set of arms, and lifted him into the air. The sound of metal rending flesh filled the chamber.

A thick spray of ether coated the boy's face and torso. Casting his eyes downward, the refugee spotted its source. A sizable hole had appeared in the beast's midsection, and in it was a dagger of respectable dimensions-the tip extending nearly to his own exposed stomach. The boy fainted.

Retrieving his weapon-which had been embedded in the Devil nearly to the hilt-, Roak ducked beneath a swing from the nearest vandal's blade, narrowly managing to spare himself from a second decapitation. Lodging his blade deep within his attacker's torso, Roak-now unarmed-drove his shoulder into the vandal's stomach. Charging into the second vandal with his new shield, he forced it to the ground. Liberating the blade from his opponent's grasp, Roak then stabbed it through the shoulder, pinning his screeching foe to the ground. Reclaiming his own blade once more, he quickly silenced the vandal's screams.

With the death of his final adversary, Roak straightened slowly, glad to be done with the fighting. The refugees made no move to approach him, so he sat on a nearby rock, his breathing slightly labored. He closed his eyes, joyous in his respite.

Then he remembered something.

Opening his eyes, Roak turned his head toward the camp's entrance. There, staring questioningly at the slayer of their comrades, were over a dozen more Fallen-primarily dregs-as well as several of their attack drones.

"For the love of all that is holy...", he grumbled irritably. Then he stood, slowly, and drew his revolver.

Six shots rang out, dropping three dregs and one of the two remaining vandals. Hearing the click that signaled for him to reload, Roak opted instead to send the cannon flying-end over end-to smash into the forehead of the final Fallen officer. Following close behind the firearm was a small throwing-knife, which severed the Eliksni's lightly-armored throat.

As ether rained through the air, the Iron Lord tackled an approaching dreg. Growing more agitated by the second, he ignored his sheathed dagger, grasped the creature's head, and twisted it forcefully to the left, only halting to the sound of its spine shattering.

The surviving scavengers, having witnessed their companion's undesirable end, opened fire on the attacker. Bolts of arc dissipated against Roak's shield, severely diminishing it. As his defenses broke, the Lord of Iron charged one of the Fallen drones.

"Ghost! Gun! Now!", he shouted. A rifle began to materialize in his hands: his favorite sniper. Tossing the partially-generated weapon into the air, Roak caught it by the barrel and brought it down upon the machine, collapsing its metal shell and sending it careening into the night.

Rescinding the weapon, Roak's Ghost quickly replaced it with an auto-rifle, which was immediately put to use. Three more Fallen collapsed to the dust, riddled with holes. A pulsing blue grenade landed at the Risen's feet, forcing him to evade. His Light propelling him skyward, Roak managed to escape the brunt of the blast, with his recently-replenished shields absorbing the remainder. Wishing to respond in kind, he extended his hand, drew upon his Light, and tossed a grenade of his own. The last few Eliksni were all slammed with columns of fire, throwing their remains into the night, and giving rise to the stench of charred flesh.

Having thwarted the attack, Roak turned to the camp once more. The refugees, wary of his gaze, began to gather stones and other possible projectiles...just in case. "Look", he began his address, "I don't know who you are, I don't know why you're here, and I don't know where you're going, but all of that can wait. For now, I will only say that I am Roak, Iron Lord in-training and apprentice to Lord Gheleon. War is coming, and you have a choice."

"A choice?" a voice called from the crowd insultingly. Walking forward, the disruptor revealed himself. As all of his peers, the boy was young. He did, however, possess something that his fellows did not: confidence. Confidence...and a sizable firearm-an auto rifle-which was currently pointed at Roak's abdomen. "What _choice_?", he spat disgustedly. "Let me guess. Either we join you...and we die, or we don't...and we die. Is that our choice?"

"Look, kid, I can't promise you victory, I can't promise you survival, but I can promise you purpose. After all, "It's better to die for something than to live for nothing.", right?" he said, addressing the crowd at large. The refugees were silent. "You get the point. So join us. Join us and stand. Join us and fight." Then, locking eyes with the accuser, he added "Join us and die."

Outside, the wind rattled audibly through the dull grass. Roak waited quietly for a response. None came.

"Please?"

 **Chapter 4, Part 3**

Yet some are more easily swayed than others.

Above the streets of New Olympus, as throughout all the lands of Ambros, there rose the banners of war. Each of these bore a single emblem, indicative of those gathered beneath it: for the common warrior, a vulture; for the Chosen, an owl; and for Ikoris himself, a phoenix. In keeping with this theme, the Awoken now wore garments of gold, with this symbol emblazoned upon his breast in crimson. A simple golden band encircled his arm, bearing the words "Από τις στάχτες ανεβαίνουμε"; "From ashes we rise".

Standing atop the marble steps of his home, his own banner carried by his Guard, Ikoris addressed the host gathered before him, which numbered nearly two-thousand. "I have ridden with you to many victories, and with your fathers before you, and theirs before them. I have always known our cause to be just, and our ways to be true. I have never made use of conscription, never thrust the burden of battle upon a weary soul, because fate has always been on our side. But no longer. Our enemies far outnumber us. Their blades are sharp, and their fangs bared. They thirst for our blood, and for the blood of our sons. They hunger for conquest. Let us give it to them. Let them taste of our fury."

With that, he drew his ancient saber from its sheath, a wave of orange flame sweeping down the blade. Drawing their own blades, hundreds of the gathered men and Risen offered shouts of approval. Replacing his sword in its scabbard, Ikoris strode to his steed- _Eklektos_ , as always-, mounted, and rode from his city into the dark of night. The army followed, some on horseback, some on foot, and some upon machines of war. Despite these varied methods of transportation, the host held a respectable pace until dawn, when they stopped to rest the horses and the men.

"Happy birthday, Percy", Perseus told his son, watching the sun crest the horizon. Retrieving a bundle from among saddle-bags, he presented it to the boy. Then, smiling, he watched as the cloth was pulled away.

Mouth agape, Percy gently lifted the shining new hand-cannon, which was currently much too large for him. The gun was white, and waves of dark blue were painted along the barrel along with a single line of text on either side. Staring at the weapon in wonder, Percy ran his fingers along the shallow lettering.

"Go ahead", his father prompted. "Read it."

" _Sons of Cronus_ ", he whispered. " _There is no greater bonding between a father and his sons...than to share a plate._ " "I have no idea what that's supposed to mean", he said in the same awe-struck tone."

"Neither do I", Perseus admitted, "But it only means what we make of it. So here", he said, handing his son a dish of tin and unwrapping a small cake.

"Wait", the boy said, amazed. "How did you..."

"Programmable matter, Percy. It's worth its weight in glimmer."

"How can we afford that?"

"Loyalty is not without its benefits, son. You will see. Once this war is won, we will have far more than cakes to show for our efforts."

"And what if we don't win? Even Lord Ikoris seemed scared." Percy asked earnestly.

"Do not question the Lords, boy. That is treason. He is not afraid. We will win.", Perseus responded sternly, his voice adopting a harsh edge. "Now eat. There's no more time for questions."

So they ate in silence, and when the time came to press onward, the silence persisted.

Perseus thought of loyalty, and of reward.

Percy thought of treason, death...and fire.

 **End of Chapter 4**

 _Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._


	5. Wolves

_Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 **Chapter 5, Part 1**

"Wolves. That is what they call us...but why? Is it because we are cunning, just as wolves? Is it because we work-together-in a pack, just as wolves? Is it because alone we are powerful, but together...together we are unstoppable? Truthfully, it is none of these things, for this is not how our enemies see wolves...or us. They see wolves as killers, as tyrants, and as cowards. Killers, because they are ferocious and unrelenting. Tyrants, because they rule their territory through strength, and their howls strike fear into all within their domain. And cowards...because they fight together, and they strike in the dark.

Yet if we truly are wolves, how can we choose? Must we not be all of these things, rather than only a few? I do not know...but we shall see. As they wish it, so it shall be. We will show them Wolves, and they will regret ever uttering that name."

Concluding his address, Radegast stepped back from his perch. Gathered in the courtyard below were scores of Risen, and standing at his sides were the closest of his colleagues: his inner circle. All about them rose the signs of war. Banners fluttered in the wind, and blades sang as warriors sparred. The scent of smoke drifted in the breeze, but this smoke was not of a similar nature to its predecessors. This carried with it the smells of a glorious celebration.

The Iron Temple was filled with a range of emotions: sorrow for the lost, and thirst for revenge; hope; fear; joy. Each individual accepted the prospect of war in their own way. Yet there was one common feeling among all: anticipation.

The Wolves were hungry, and they would feast.

* * *

"So it begins", Radegast whispered, watching as his people readied for war.

"Do not worry, my lord. We outnumber them by nearly three to one. Ikoris cannot hope to stand against the might of the Iron Lords", the figure at his right consoled him.

"Don't fool yourself, Saladin", Radegast chastised. "Ikoris has faced far worse odds before, and he has never known defeat. Our current situation is proof enough of that."

"Be that as it may," another stated, "we will emerge victorious nonetheless. Ikoris will taste defeat, and he will die his final death by my hand. This I swear."

"Why do you hate him so, Lord Felwinter?" a new speaker questioned. "Why must he die?"

"Because he is dangerous", the scholar defended.

" _Why_ is he dangerous? Because he dares to hold his own beliefs, and to act upon them? Because he dares not only to question, but also to answer? Tell me, my friend, which of these things is so wrong as to warrant death?

Felwinter stood for a moment, silent, and formulated his response. "Some questions...", he began, "...are best left both unasked and unanswered."

Dissatisfied with this response, Timur pushed on. "What did you say that he called you then, before the battle?"

Hesitating for a moment, Felwinter responded in a whisper. "Afraid. He said that I was afraid."

"And are you not?" the other scholar asked knowingly. "Are you not afraid?"

Not bothering to await a response that would never come, Timur turned and left without another word. Noting their companion's absence, the other Lords began to depart as well, one by one. Eventually, only Radegast and Felwinter remained upon the steps, each silent, captives of their own thoughts.

After some time, the Risen were released from their musings by the cries of an approaching messenger. Striding up the steps, he greeted them hastily. "Lord Radegast, there have been reports of troop mobilization throughout the lands of Ambros, all heading in the same direction. They ride for this sector. They're coming to us."

"And the sources of these reports? Are they credible?" he inquired.

"They're our own scouts, sir."

"I see...", he began, weighing his options. "We cannot fight them here; too much is at stake", he stated with certainty.

"Shall I ready the fleet, then, sir?" the messenger questioned.

Before Radegast could reply, Felwinter answered. "No. If Ikoris wishes to die by blade over bullet, then I shall oblige. We will fight on his terms, and our victory will be all the sweeter for it. Fetch me a steed."

Shocked at the response, the man stood speechless for a moment before responding. "Yes, Lord Felwinter. Right away, sir."

Felwinter did not respond, nor did he watch as the messenger made his exit. He only gazed down from his mountaintop to the valleys below, thinking only one thing.

 _As they wish it, so it shall be._

 **Chapter 5, Part 2**

"So...what are you doing?"

Roak awoke with a start, jolting upright in search for the cause of his wakening. He sat in a cell of rock and boughs, which acted as the foundations and bars of the cage respectively. There was no commotion from beyond his prison, and the camp's leader still had yet to post a guard of any sort. Nothing had changed. Roak lay down to resume his nap.

"What? Aren't you gonna break out?" a voice called from nearby, irritation and disappointment evident in its tone. Roak rose again and reevaluated his surroundings. There, watching him from the shadows, stood one of the refugees. He stepped forward. The boy's face was worryingly pale, and his ill-fitting clothes were in shambles, but his eyes shone with a strange confidence and vibrance.

"Are you deaf?" he questioned with annoyance.

Roak stood dumbly for a spell before answering. "What do you want, kid? Can't you see that they've locked me up?"

"Oh, bullshit. I saw what was left of those Scavengers. I know what you can do. You could get out if you wanted to...so why are you still here?"

"Have you ever heard of this thing called a _nap_?" Roak inquired, growing agitated.

"Yeah, I have. I just took one myself", the boy responded.

"Well isn't that just _fantastic_? And did I wake _you_ up in the middle of _your_ nap?"

"Umm...well...no, bu-"

"That's what I thought", Roak interjected sourly. "So how about you return the favor and leave me be, pal?"

His face downcast, the youth stood silent for some time before replying. "You're a real disappointment, you know that? I thought you'd be cool, but you're a jerk...just like the rest of them. I don't know what I expected from a _Warlord_ anyway; you're all the same." Having said his part, the refugee turned and began to walk away, ever so slowly, sticking to the shadows as best he could.

"Why?" Roak asked quietly, not expecting the inquiry to be acknowledged.

Turning back to face the cell, the boy raised his eyebrows in question.

Noting the cue to elaborate, Roak obliged. "Why do you want me to break out?"

"Because", the refugee replied, lifting his arm to Roak's face. The oversized sleeve fell away to reveal a bloody stump. "You saved my life."

* * *

Moving with all of the speed and stealth that they could muster, Roak and his new companion made for the cave's entrance. As the entire camp lay between them and escape, confrontation was inevitable. Knowing this, Roak sought to make that confrontation as brief and one-sided as possible.

Singling out the leader and his cronies, the Risen ghosted through the clusters of refugees in silence. This silence, while impressive, was nonetheless incapable of fully masking his presence, and he was soon spotted. Locking eyes with his discoverer-a boy of fourteen or so-Roak slowly raised his hand into the air. In it materialized a dagger of intimidating proportions, which the Warlord raised to his lips-or at least the corresponding portion of his helmet. Seeing this, the boy's eyes widened in fright, and his mouth fell agape slightly. He dared not move; he dared not blink; he dared not even breathe.

Roak lowered the knife, but held his stare. After several tense moments of fear and confusion, the message was finally received, and the boy's mouth snapped shut. Roak nodded slightly and continued on his way. Once he was within earshot of his target, he slowed to a near standstill. The leader sat amongst a small circle of his companions, listening to the one nearest him.

"...say we kill the Wolf...what then? Where do we go? If we go home, we die. If we stay here, we die. If we go east _without_ him, we die. If we can't do any of those things, and we can't go _with_ the Wolf, what _can_ we do?"

"What can we do? What can _we_ do? _We_ can't do anything, brother. _I_ can make the decisions, and _you_ can listen to them. That is all. Do you understand?"

The other sat in silence for a moment before answering, his voice a whisper. "Yeah, Hardy, but I just don't see-"

Hardy, finding the response entirely inadequate, elected to cut short its pitiful existence. "I _said_ do. you. _understand_?" he questioned, his irritation lending emphasis to each word. A tense silence fell upon the camp, broken only by the distant roar of a coming storm.

"No", the response came after a brief pause.

" _What_?" the tyrant shouted, nearly deafened with indignation. Hardy was, in fact, so desensitized by his fury that he failed to recognize several things. Most notedly among these were the tone, pitch, and origin of the response to which he now replied.

"No. He doesn't understand", the voice restated, entirely unperturbed by the force of Hardy's reaction.

The boy scanned his surroundings, slowly processing the reality of his situation. The camp was still, and silence reigned. All eyes were wide with fear, but they did not look to their leader. Rather, they stared at the figure who stood above him. Horror gripped the tyrant, and his anger quickly dissipated as he too saw what the others feared.

Sensing that the boy would not take kindly to his usurpation, Roak sought to make use of his adversary's current stupor. Acting with haste, the Risen snatched Hardy's rifle from its place at his side and hefted it in hand. Emerging from his daze, the tyrant opened his mouth to protest. His efforts were soon halted by the sound of metal on stone, however, and he stared disbelievingly at the twisted wreck of his weapon, which lay against the hollow's nearest wall.

That was my father's rifle...", Hardy said absently, his disbelief slowly morphing into anger. His judgement once again clouded by rage, the tyrant's frustrations began to boil, and he made no attempt to stifle them. "You're going to pay for that, you bastard! I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you son of a-"

"Bite your tongue!", Roak hissed, clasping his hand over the boy's mouth in a flash of motion. Hardy, after overcoming the initial shock of the development, began to yell into his adversary's hand. The Warlord, his eyes fixed on the cave's entrance, simply raised a hand to silence him. Hardy, both confused and intrigued, grudgingly complied.

The gathered refugees, driven more by fear than interest, followed their leader's example and remained quiet. The Wolf released his captive and-treading lightly so as to preserve the silence-cautiously approached the entrance. There he stood for a short spell, his head cocked to one side and his body still. He was listening for something, of that the refugees were sure, but they knew not what; they heard only the roll of thunder.

"What is it? More rain?" a voice called from the camp, which Roak recognized as belonging to the one-handed boy. The rumbling grew closer-more distinct. Rather than respond, the Warlord stepped away from the opening and flattened against the stone wall. Just as he did so, a trio of horsemen galloped through the rock-strewn clearing outside, banners fluttering behind them. The refugees caught their breath, receding further into the shadows, and waited. Roak visibly relaxed.

Over a minute passed, and the hoofbeats grew distant. Yet as the sounds of the horsemen quieted, they were replaced by different sounds...and these drew nearer. These new sounds were not distinct and rhythmic, as the others had been. Rather, they were slurred and homogenized in order to create a constant, unsettling rumble, such as that of thunder. For this reason, Roak was incapable of identifying the individual voices within this chorus. That is, until they were almost upon him.

Thanks to his motion tracker, Roak managed to push himself back against the wall just as a Sparrow skimmed by mere yards away, quickly followed by nearly a dozen others. Each left a trail of light in its wake before speeding away, engine humming, at a pace that promised to overcome the earlier vanguard of riders within minutes.

Learning from his near-discovery, the Wolf fought the urge to peer outside again once the Sparrows had passed. This decision-as soon became apparent-was an exceedingly wise one, for the bulk of the force had yet to arrive. And oh, what a force it was.

Roak retreated from the entrance in anticipation of what was to come. The sounds the host's approach underwent a constant crescendo, slowly building from a distant call to a very present shout within minutes. Engines screamed; hooves battered the earth; banners struggled against the growing winds. Roak heard none of this. In its stead, he heard but a single voice-a whisper at first, but now a deafening roar. It spoke not in words, for it was neither man nor beast. It was the voice of a purpose-a collective understanding-, and it said only this: " _To victory, or to death._ "

No longer, Roak realized, was war approaching. It was upon them, and it could very well spell their end. Yet he found himself in a uniquely powerful position. He stood behind enemy lines...and he had an army of his own.

 _Now to inform the troops._

 **End of Chapter 5**

 _Please do not hesitate to offer questions, criticism, or comments of any kind. As stated, I am new to fanfiction, and I would love to hear your thoughts on my work._


	6. An Appeal to Fate

**Chapter 6, Part 1**

As the last streaks of sunlight disappeared from the horizon, and the moon rose in its slow arc, a pale figure stood atop a barren hill and gazed across the tundra. The night grew cold, but the air was dry, so this ultimately meant little. After all, it was always cold here. Cold, and indifferent.

Ikoris had made the decision to set their rendezvous here for one reason, and one reason only: it had this hill. Though this sector only recently came into his possession, Ikoris had stood upon this spot many times. Not that Garamont had ever learned of his frequent intrusions, of course-they had nothing to do with the late Warlord. Ikoris had never made any serious attempt to conquer this land; he was simply passing through. His destination was much more distant, for it lay at the heart of the Wolves' domain. In fact, it *was* the heart of their domain. It was the Traveler. It was his Creator. It was his Mother.

On each of his previous trips, Ikoris had ventured to the valley in which his Mother lay, but had gone no further than to stand upon the mountain peaks. He had not sought conflict-that, he knew, would come in time. No, he came to admire. The sight of Her always drew Ikoris to a state of reverence, of wonder, and-eventually-of despair. He was a loving child, and, when circumstances permitted, even a loving brother to his siblings...but he was bitter.

He had tried to reason with his kin. He had tried to negotiate. He had even come close to pleading, but something had snapped within him before that could occur, and he had come to the realization that would shape his fate. _They_ did not wish Her to be healed. _They_ did not wish to liberate Her, or to repay Her for the favor of their existence. They did not even _trust_ Her. They chose to leave their Mother as She was: broken, dying, chained...because they were afraid. They were afraid that She would leave and, in doing so, would relieve them of their power and purpose. They thought Her destiny to be of lesser import than their own.

They were wrong.

For centuries, this belief had held firm within Ikoris' mind, unperturbed by the Wolves' own pleadings and attempts at reason. And attempts were all that they could muster, for-in truth-they were wholly incapable of reason: their perspectives were inherently flawed. Of this, Ikoris was sure. To see this, one need look only to their past conflicts-his a trail of unmarred triumph, and theirs a road of failure. Of course, Ikoris himself needn't even search so far as that for reassurance. He need only ask, and await the inevitable response. It was not a reply of words or even of thoughts, but rather a vision of his future...that is to say, it was a vision of victory.

Until recently.

Fate, it seemed, was no longer on his side. Fate had _denied_ him. And so, he would ask again...and he would wait.

Ikoris gazed across the lands that surrounded him, his eyes scanning over an army of thousands, and their eyes staring back. These were his people. _This was his empire_...and, should the course of fate hold steady, it would soon fall.

Ikoris closed his eyes, reveling in the sounds of life about him. Then, his face relaxed and his mind calmed, he took a breath and held it. A blade sang against its scabbard, quieting the crowd. Thousands watched as the Awoken's corpse fell to the ground. The people stared in horror. The Chosen watched in interest, however slight. The animals paused seemingly without reason. The wind was silent. The fires dimmed.

All was still.

 **Chapter 6, Part 2**

Percy was, to say the least, confused. He was surrounded, and was thusly unable to see the cause for his elders' concern. His want to communicate this, however, was soon lost, as a sharp pain surged through his shoulder. Percy winced, and the pain only worsened. Turning, he saw that his father's hand was the source of the agony. The elder Percy's face, his son noted, was wrought with worry, and his bloodless knuckles held the younger in a death-grip.

Trying at first to free himself, Percy eventually elected to simply bear the pain in silence for so long as the quiet persisted. After a number of excruciating seconds, his attention drifted once more to his father, for there was much to be gleaned from his countenance. As previously, he made note of the worry in that face, but there was more: there was sorrow. His father, Percy was confident, had never exhibited such levels of sorrow...not even after Burnings.

Though he remained wary of breaking the silence, the boy's curiosity was undoubtedly piqued. He was near the limit of his patience when the first whispers reached him, traveling as a wave of cold terror and bewilderment.

"The king is dead..." someone said, shock and disbelief evident in their tone.

"Can he not arise, as he has done before? Cannot all Chosen defy death?", a voice inquired, calling the weight of the situation into question.

"Aye," another offered, "...but only if he wishes."

"So that's all this is, then!" someone responded, his voice a shout. "Suicide!" Many in the gathered host turned toward the accuser. Several scoffed at the thought. Most were too afraid to speak.

Growing defensive, the man continued. "Well, isn't it? He calls us here, forces us to fight for him, and then he goes and offs himself! He-an immortal warrior-is too scared to face his own battles, so he leaves men and boys to fight them in his place! He is no _god_ , he is a coward!"

Some in the crowd nodded their heads in cautious agreement. Most kept their thoughts to themselves. Others voiced their dissent.

"That is treason", the elder Percy said confidently, his eyes growing dark with hatred.

"Oh, is it now? And who would you be? The coward's lapdog, perhaps?" the rebel accused.

"No...", Perseus trailed, gritting his teeth. "I am his friend. And I'll take no insults from the likes of you."

"Do you intend to silence me, then?" the man taunted, advancing toward his opponent so as to demonstrate the great disparity in their statures.

Holding his ground, Perseus replied. "If that is what it takes, yes, but I suggest that you do so yourself-for their sake if not your own," he said, gesturing to a trio of youths who he presumed to be the traitor's sons.

Uttering a laugh of menace rather than merriment, the man pressed forward, his eyes promising to exact revenge for the threat on his heirs. "Do you think me a fool? Ikoris is dead, and his policies with him. Unless you aim to enforce them yourself, that is."

In a flash of motion, Perseus swept behind the traitor and brought a knife to his throat, stopping only once he felt the resistance of flesh. "As you w-", he began, halting abruptly as a brilliant flash split the night. The winds returned with renewed purpose, and the fires roared in their wake.

Turning, Perseus saw that Ikoris stood upon the hill once more, his figure alight and clothed in garments of flame. Wings of fire unfurled at his back, and his eyes shone with great intensity. These eyes, it should be noted, were fixed upon his companion's newly-acquired hostage.

In the time between Ikoris' seemingly miraculous resurrection and his arrival at Perseus' side, the members of his host had time only to blink, and his target released a frightened whimper. Shortly thereafter, his eyes went wide, and a scorching hand clasped about his neck, somehow refraining from sending him backward into the gathering of awe-struck spectators.

"I did not desert you, you miserable wretch. I was...out on business, if you will. But I am not blind. I saw your little attempt at rebellion, and I must say that I am not pleased. I am, however, rather curious...so I will offer a proposal. You answer a question of mine, and I won't crush your throat between my fingers. Do we have a deal?"

His veins bulging as a consequence of his ongoing strangulation, the rebel managed only a slight nod. Ikoris released his hand, and the man dropped to the earth.

"Good", the Risen stated, the flames that surrounded him gradually calming before reducing themselves to a smolder. "Now tell me, my dear friend...why is it that those who have the most to lose-", he paused, motioning at the man's sons, "-so often choose to risk everything for what is, in your case, nothing more than the freedom to die on one's own terms?"

"Can't you see?" the man responded amid a fit of coughing. "We are already damned to death. It doesn't matter. But I'll not be a pawn. Not for you."

"If that is how you truly feel," Ikoris replied, cold as ever, "then die a free man. I'll not stop you." Turning to face the bulk of his army, the Warlord's calm tone was exchanged for a commanding one. "This man is leaving!" he announced. "Those who wish to do the same, I suggest that you take this opportunity to act upon your desires. The wild is a dangerous place, and even more so for those who tread alone." He paused for a moment, but continued as no others stepped forward. "I assure you, this is no trick. You will not be hunted, nor your names defamed. I do not want for grudging servitude; I desire loyal obedience. If you feel yourself incapable of the latter, I invite you to depart, and I bid you farewell." Despite his words, Ikoris was deeply angered by what next unfolded.

The people murmured amongst themselves for some time before silence's reign was restored, and a score of others elected to join the deserter. The crowd parted as the disloyal made for its edge, their heads low and their eyes downcast.

The gathered warriors gazed after their ex-comrades, with Perseus' glare enduring the longest. They should, he believed, be made to pay for such an act of unfaithfulness. Had the decision been his own, they would have paid dearly.

Banishing these thoughts to the fringe of his mind, Perseus turned to Ikoris and-in an effort to dispel his urge for insubordination-spoke the first words that came to mind. "Long live the king!"

The exclamation swelled as one voice grew to ten, and ten to twenty, and twenty to hundreds. After a matter of seconds, all among Ikoris' host shouted his praises. All, that is, excepting one...for Perseus' own son stood in silence, staring into the Awoken's eyes. Ikoris stared back, and the boy froze, the blood quickly draining from his face.

Ikoris held his gaze.

Percy blinked.

 **End of Chapter 6**


	7. The Warpath

**Chapter 7, Part 1**

Felwinter shot through the night, his normally bright armor of ivory and bronze now only a smear of gray motion amid the black. The only sounds his sensors could detect were those of his mount: a stocky bay, pushed far beyond its limit and nearing death. The scholar noted the white foam accumulating at the beast's mouth, as well as its labored breathing, but he paid these things no heed. The others weren't far behind him. He hadn't any time to waste.

Turning from these thoughts, Felwinter's mind shifted to the encounter that awaited him. He rode to meet with Ikoris. To halt his advance. To cut the head from the snake, and to watch its body rot before him.

A stiff wind swept down from the north, rushing to meet Felwinter's charge and causing his horse to sway. The Iron Lord was unfazed by the gust, but was nonetheless stirred from his musings. Hearing the faint rhythm of a hoofbeat, he spurred his mount onward. The beast lowered its head, uttered a quavering whinny, and plunged to the icy ground as its knees buckled beneath it.

Felwinter responded, vaulting from the saddle, and adding a burst of Light to focus his momentum. His landing was a soft one, and he transitioned from flight to a sprint without faltering. The scholar did not spare so much as a backward glance for his fallen steed. It was dead. He was sure of it.

However, despite his need for haste, he was brought to a halt by a startling realization. The sound of hooves had yet to cease. In fact, it had only grown louder. Felwinter turned. A streak of motion flashed by inches to his right, stunning him, and he was swept into the air before he could process what his sensors were attempting to convey.

* * *

Gheleon's hand sprang into the air, balled into a fist. The column's pace slowed to a canter, then a trot, and, eventually, a halt. The Lord of Iron wheeled his horse about to face his companions. He sat in silence, his gaze sweeping from helmet to helmet, lingering on Felwinter's visor, then flicking to the Lord seated nearest him. Gheleon gave a slight nod, but no sound escaped him.

Felwinter broke the silence.

Dismounting with great annoyance, the scholar shot his captor an angry glare before addressing Gheleon.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

"Radegast didn't take kindly to your sudden departure...or your suicidal intent", the scout drawled in answer.

Felwinter did not respond, electing instead to continue his journey on foot.

"You can't fight him alone", Gheleon called. "He'll tear you apart. Don't have any bones for me to pick through, neither."

"I _am_ going to fight him, Gheleon. Wait for my return if you wish. Should I succeed, I will bring you his bones. Should I fail, I suspect that you will have many bones to choose from."

"I don't give a damn about the bones", the frontiersman stated flatly. "We aren't here to stop you; we're your escort. Now get on the horse."

 **Chapter 7, Part 2**

"I spy with my little eye...a tree."

"Which one?"

"The one on the right."

"Oh. Okay. I win again."

Roak stilled for a moment, absorbed in thought. "This game seems too easy..."

The boy shrugged. "It's pre-Golden Age. People _were_ pretty stupid back then."

Roak nodded in silent agreement, his mind searching for an alternative pastime. "Got any other games?"

"Not really, no. Shouldn't we be focusing on training and stuff anyway? Games aren't gonna help us kill Warlords."

"Yes", Roak conceded, nodding slightly, "but that stuff is boring."

"Aren't _you_ supposed to be the mature one?" The boy asked, catching the Warlord by surprise.

"Excuse me?" the frontiersman questioned.

"I mean, we're about to go fight immortal warriors, we're practically defenseless, and you want to play travel games. I'm taking this more seriously than you are, and I'm thirteen."

Roak halted, and his companion-though confused-responded in kind. The Iron Lord turned, staring at the boy in slight confusion. "And?" he asked dumbly.

The refugee responded with a confused stare of his own. "And...well, you're a Warlord. You're immortal. You're probably older than my great-grandfather."

Roak turned back to the trail and resumed his march before answering. "I'm three."

"Oh. You don't look three", the boy said earnestly.

"You don't know many Risen, do you?" the Iron Lord questioned.

"No, just you and...just you."

"What was that?", Roak questioned.

"Well, I talked to our Lord once, a few months ago-on my birthday. He talks to everyone once they turn thirteen. Tells them about the Scavengers...and the Ambrosians", the boy trailed, "and the Wolves...", he finished, casting his eyes downward.

"He does?", Roak asked, interested. "And what does he say about us?"

"Nothing", the youth said dismissively.

"Tell me...", the Risen insisted.

"Well, you know...just that you're liars...and murderers...and thieves...and cowards...and that you smell like shit and have fleas. Y'know, just like normal wolves."

"Do you believe those things?" Roak asked, his reaction a mixture of indignation and amusement. The latter was short lived.

"I dunno...", the boy said, staring at the ground as he walked.

"Hey", the Warlord said, his voice stern. "Answer the question."

Startled by the harshness of his companion's tone, the refugee blurted out a response. "I mean, I guess so."

Roak halted instantly and pivoted to face the child. "Why?" he demanded. "I saved your life. You said so yourself. What more do you want?"

The boy's only reply was a weak shrug, and he continued to shuffle ahead. Roak grabbed him by the shoulders, denying his escape. " _Why?_ " he asked again, his voice growing hard. "If I were a murderer and a coward, why would I save you?"

"Just because I'm a kid doesn't mean that I'm stupid", the refugee mumbled.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You're using us!" the boy shouted, frustrated by the barrage of questions. "You're forcing us into _your_ war!"

Roak recoiled from the accusations. "I'm not forcing _you_ into anything", he rebutted pointedly. " _You_ volunteered."

" _They_ didn't!" the youth exclaimed, motioning toward the other refugees.

"I need help...", the Warlord said quietly. "I can't fight them alone. I need you to help me... _all_ of you."

" _No_ ", the boy insisted. "That's a lie. You need us to _die_ for you. You just want to impress your friends."

"Why would I lie to you?" Roak asked, his anger replaced by hurt.

"I don't know", the youth said flatly "How can I? I barely know you at all. Hell, you haven't even shown us your face."

The Iron Lord reached up, grasped his helm at the sides, and pulled it off in a flash. A gaseous hiss lingered in the air as the armor's pressure was released. Roak stood silently and allowed the boy to study his face for several seconds before he spoke, his voice that of one making a simple observation.

"I don't even know your damn name."

The refugee stared up at Roak for a moment before responding, his voice relaxed.

"Locke. My name is Locke."

 **Chapter 7, Part 3**

The rays of a young dawn shone upon Radegast's back, neglected. The Iron Lord gazed instead to the direction of his comrades' departure, his cold stare lending the early morning a feeling of perpetual twilight. Gheleon and his scouts had left hours ago. He had seen them off personally, and had stood here ever since in unmoving silence.

Now, Radegast awaited the imminent arrival of their courier. He knew not who among Gheleon's host would bear the news, but that did not matter; he knew their message. Felwinter was gone.

"Lord Radegast", a voice called from behind, shattering his spell of brooding, but failing to thaw his icy countenance. It was Timur. The scholar was seated upon a proud black stallion, his heavy robes of olive accentuated by a silver breastplate and bracers, each embellished with the carved faces of wolves. A purple medallion hung at his neck, imbued with Light. _He never wears that_ , Radegast thought in alarm. _Not when we fight Warlords._

"We are leaving", Timur continued. "I suggest that you do the same. They are not coming back."

Radegast nodded in reply, but had no words to offer. Timur sensed that no answer would come, so he urged his horse onward and departed with no further comment. Fifteen others followed him, also on horseback. They headed northwest.

The Lord of Iron did not move; he only watched. He watched as Timur's host crested the horizon, their shimmering virid standard disappearing in the cold distance. Once they had gone, the Risen turned once more to the west.

Within the hour, Radegast was again greeted by the beat of hooves on flagstones, this time aided by the steady thrum of an engine. He did not turn. He heard a soft thump, then the creaking of fresh leather as one of the riders dismounted and approached. A hand lighted at his shoulder, and a familiar voice spoke. "Figured I'd find you here", Perun stated, a hint of sadness in her voice. "More scouts came back this morning. Say the Ambrosians are split into four armies, all set to converge on the Traveler."

Radegast did not react to this news.

"We can't wait forever, Radegast. Either he comes back or he doesn't. We have a war to win, with or without him."

The Lord of Iron finally responded, his voice quiet from lack of use. "If he succeeds, there may not be any war."

"There will be", Perun said with resigned surety. "Not all of his followers are weasels. Some of them actually believe his twisted prophecies."

Radegast kept silent, for he knew this to be true.

"Anyway, looks like the others went north, so we'll go south. What do they call that little city of theirs down there?"

"Auros", he responded, his voice dead.

"Yeah. We'll start with them", Perun said confidently. Then she turned and walked back to her horse. "We're going to Auros", she announced to her companions. "Gilead, lead the way."

Radegast did not turn to watch Perun's host until they had all passed. He didn't get a proper count, but their numbers were few-of that he was sure. He glimpsed the cloaked figure of Perun amid the band of riders, and the sleek form of a sparrow at its head, bearing the Iron Lords' standard. He turned away long before they reached the horizon.

Silimar arrived in Perun's wake, but said nothing upon gauging his leader's mood. His host was far larger than either that had preceded it, and none within it were borne by either beast or machine. Nevertheless, the ground shook beneath the thunder of their march, and Radegast stole a glance in interest.

The warriors were arranged into orderly columns, and each shared several common factors that lent them a fierce appearance: they were tall, heavily armored, and armed to the teeth. Some carried shields of bronze, with blades sheathed at their sides. Others had missile launchers or machine guns slung upon their backs, and various other arms scattered about their persons. The vast majority wore helmets, but some breathed fresh air into their lungs. They did this not because they had to-they didn't *have* to breathe at all-but because they wished to. Radegast met eyes with each of these, and each held his stare. That was when the full weight of their situation finally dawned upon him. Each of these men was prepared to die for their cause. In fact, it seemed that they *expected* to.

It was no use awaiting the arrival of war. This he had known since the start, but had willed into oblivion out of want for its falsity. No, war was upon them...whether he wanted it or not. The prelude had passed. His allies already tread upon the warpath

Now, Radegast resolved, it was time that he joined them.

 **End of Chapter 7  
**

* * *

 _Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 ** _Author's Note:_** I've no real way to gauge when Chapter 8 will be published, as I've done little in the way of its creation. As I've planned it, however, it will likely be one of the more substantial chapters, so its release likely won't come for at least a week.


	8. With Honor

**DISCLAIMER:** This chapter is somewhat darker than usual.

 **Chapter 8, Part 1**

They were already cold when he found them.

Ikoris stood amidst a field of bodies, his eyes downcast, sweeping over corpse after corpse. A thin layer of frost blanketed the scene, having condensed from the cold air of night. The Awoken knelt by some of the bodies, dusting the ice from their faces and making note of their wounds. They had come, as he had known they would; the Scavengers; the Devils.

Some had died in their sleep, their throats cut with electrified blades. Most of these lay beneath blankets, their eyes closed, their muscles relaxed. Their pale, bloodless faces would-the Warlord thought-look rather peaceful, if not for the pools of crimson in which they lay.

 _These_ deserters, though, were the fortunate few. Others had died in combat, occasionally managing to fell a Scavenger or two before themselves falling to the cold thrust of a saber or a searing blast of slag. For these, death had been an acceptable price for that which they sought to protect: their children. In sparing their offspring from a swift death, however, they had unknowingly condemned them to the cruelest fate of all.

Left alone at the hands of the Devils with no real means of defense, it was the children who saw firsthand the reason for their being named as such. Their ways were barbaric, and their interests of a far darker variety than those of any other Fallen. They did not shy from pursuing these interests.

In testament to this, one corpse lay at the camp's edge, broken and discarded, its skin lacerated by innumerable cuts, none reaching deeper than an inch.

Another had been bludgeoned and spitted above the deserters' pitiful fire, which had proven unable to keep either the chill of dark or the monsters within it at bay. Ikoris had never known the Devils to eat human flesh, but their doing so failed to surprise him.

More remains had been tossed about the space. Some lacked fingers or toes; others wanted for whole limbs. _The Devils_ , Ikoris thought grimly, _seem to have taken a peculiar interest in human anatomy._

He saw all of these things, and took note. He stared into the face of death. He did not turn away.

* * *

Perseus walked to his Lord's side, his son by his own, and took in the scene. His face was calm, but his eyes held the flame of an anger well satisfied. He spat on the ground where the bodies lay, and walked on in silence.

The other men glanced at the tapestry of misery spread before them, woven with flesh and soaked in blood. Many retched at their feet. None gazed long upon the spectacle. Perseus had not broken as they before the sight, but he knew that sleep would escape him tonight.

His father had gone, meandering aimlessly, distancing himself from the massacre...but Percy stayed. He stood to Ikoris' side, conscious of the distance between them, and intent on maintaining it. Just as the Warlord, Percy absorbed the scene before him, burning it into his memory. This, he decided, was a moment worth remembering. The boy knelt to touch the corpses-not to examine, as the Awoken had, but to explore.

Percy's fingers grazed the frozen skin of one of the initial deserter's sons, his body hitherto untouched. It was surprisingly taut, and he withdrew his hand quickly. His fingertips were slick with oil from the boy's skin and water from the ice that had covered it, melted by Percy's own heat. He dropped to his knees, leaning over the body to stare into its face. The eyes were still open, but they were glassy and dead, and had nothing to teach him. Percy shuffled to another corpse, ignoring the blood that mixed with dew to soak his trousers. He was distracted by thoughts of adventure.

His opportunity was soon cut short, however, as his father beckoned him away from the bodies. That, Perseus thought, was no place for a child. It was no place for _anyone_. Percy obeyed reluctantly, yearning to satisfy his morbid curiosity.

* * *

After several minutes of silent reflection, Ikoris sent his host onward. He did not accompany them. This confused the Chosen, and the men glanced at him questioningly, their faces wrought with concern.

They obeyed, of course-it was an order, not a request-, but they did not understand. They _could_ not understand. Once the host disappeared from sight, Ikoris set to work.

There were twenty-four of them. He did not have a shovel. He did not care.

The Warlord had neither love nor respect for these deserters, and felt no sorrow at their passing. They were traitors. They did not deserve proper burials...but that did not matter. He had given his word, and he would honor it. He would treat the bastards as his own.

Once the deed was done, he mounted Eklektos and followed the Devils' trail. He found them in a cave several miles from the site of the massacre. They were not expecting visitors.

As Ikoris rode for his host once more, the cavern's halls flooded with fire, and its mouth billowed ash.

 **Chapter 8, Part 2**

"What do you mean he _isn't here_?" Felwinter shouted, causing the gathered men to take a collective step backward.

"Just that", the hooded figure before him responded, his flat voice belying growing annoyance. "He isn't here."

Felwinter stood in silence, fuming. The Ambrosian ambassador's guards, who were positioned to either side of him in the usual arrowhead formation, sat silent upon their mounts, their posture relaxed but their eyes attentive.

"When will Ikoris return?" the scholar finally asked, infuriated by his own use of those words. They made him feel like a child. He was not here for a game of hide and seek: he was here for blood. Still, he could find no better words to use.

"I do not know", the Chosen responded, "and I see no reason why you should care. Honestly, it seems to me that you should be glad of his absence."

"I care...", Felwinter said, gritting his teeth, "...because I cannot _kill_ him if I cannot _find_ him."

The cloaked figure stilled a moment in pause, processing the Wolf's words. "So it is a duel that you want?" he asked.

"Yes", the Lord of Iron replied, his tone that of one speaking to a toddler.

"Very well", the Ambrosian said, drawing a blade of bronze and adopting a bracing stance.

"Not you, you imbecile!" Felwinter bellowed. "I want to fight _Ikoris_!"

"Very well", a voice repeated, more distant than that prior, yet much more distinct.

Felwinter shifted his gaze, staring past the ambassador to spot the new arrival just as their helmet disappeared. The scholar needed no aid in determining his identity, of course. The speaker rode forward, an expanse of plain visible at his back where the crowd had parted.

Doffing his own helmet, Felwinter spoke again, locking eyes with his new opponent. "I'm going to kill you, Ikoris. Today."

"We shall see", the Awoken replied grimly.

From where Roak lay, they were little more than specks of color against the dull ground-to the naked eye, that is. Through the lens of his scope, however, the Iron Lord perceived the scene in great detail.

The two hosts had met without hostilities-at least none that could be measured in crimson blades or spent brass-and had sent forth their ambassadors: Felwinter for the Lords of Iron, and a gray-cloaked figure whose identity he was neither able nor willing to determine for the Ambrosians.

Ikoris, to Roak's surprise, was initially absent. This observation at first disappointed him, but then furnished him with a measure of hope. Any thoughts of victory which the scout may have housed were short-lived, however, as the thunder of hooves called from the west. The source of this noise was outside of Roak's field of vision, of course, but he needn't see the sound's origin to guess its cause.

Ikoris had arrived.

The Lord of Iron had watched from his knoll in silence as the Awoken crossed the distance between himself and the war parties, rays of early sun causing his silken robes to shimmer like flames of crimson and gold atop the silver streak of his steed.

Then Ikoris had reached the others, and things had set into motion. As the Lord of Ambros cantered forward, he had exchanged words with Felwinter, though these were directed away from Roak and thus escaped his understanding. Then he had dismounted, and the two had begun to circle about, ending their conversation. The others arranged themselves in a ring, completely encircling the pair of Risen, though they were careful to leave a wide berth.

Roak thanked himself silently, glad of his luck.

Were it not for his raised position, he might have lost sight of his prey.

* * *

Felwinter glared at his opponent, his form radiating a cold fury as he began to circle. All of his efforts, the scholar knew, were to culminate in this encounter. He had endured years of a bitter rivalry which, while reducing him to a being of festering rage and want for vindication, had left the Awoken seemingly unchanged. He knew not when the fighting was to begin, and doubted that his voice held the power to initiate it. So he simply circled...and watched...and waited.

Ikoris saw the Wolf across from him, who stood prowling just as he. Felwinter had already donned the garments of war, and a broadsword was clasped at his side. He had come in this way, Ikoris knew. He had come to fight. He had come to die.

Yet this match, he was confident, was not to be determined by arms or armor. No-its outcome would be the decision of fate. Still, it was best to look the part. Ikoris allowed himself to be enveloped by a shell of light as he, too, armed himself for the duel. When the glow faded, he was adorned with the suit which he had worn at the death of Garamont: his helm and breastplate were of silver, as were his bracers, and his robe was a deep burgundy. He held no shield, nor any rifle. Just as his opponent, the Lord of Ambros carried only a sheathed blade.

Felwinter watched this transformation in silence, and he circled. When the illumination about the Awoken's form had faded, he made his move.

The cry of steel sounded as Felwinter's sword was dragged from its sheath. Before the crowd could take notice of the blade, the scholar had closed the distance to his opponent. Ikoris' ancient saber flashed from its own holster, and flames ran its surface as he parried the blow.

Allowing the Exo's blade to slide from his own, the Warlord sidestepped, restoring the space between them.

Once more, the Risen circled.

"Tell me, Felwinter, what do you hope to gain from this exchange?" Ikoris questioned flatly.

"I do not hope to _gain_ anything. I only hope for _you_ to _lose everything_."

"And why is that?" the Awoken pressed. "Why do you loathe me so?"

"Because you are a butcher, damn you, and a tyrant!" the Iron Lord spat.

"Spare me your lies, Felwinter", Ikoris replied, his tone calm. "They will not serve you well here. You are as much a butcher as I. You have killed, just as I, and your victims have been no more deserving of death than my own. Yet you call me a tyrant?" The Warlord laughed dismissively. "Yes. I suppose I am. We are _all_ tyrants...even your Wolves. It is unavoidable. I think that you may have been proud of such a title, once, while you sat upon your mountain throne. You were among the best of us _tyrants_ , my friend."

Felwinter lunged forward once more, driven by anger and impatience, and thirst for blood. His blow was parried, and Ikoris continued. "But you were an _honest_ tyrant, then. Now you are a tyrant, yes, but also a liar, and a coward."

The scholar swung again, and was blocked. This time, however, as sword and saber met, Felwinter released his blade. As the broadsword arced into the sky, he drove his body forward, sending his shoulder into the Awoken's chest, his full force behind it. The crack of bone sounded audibly as the Warlord's ribs gave way beneath his armor, and he skidded across the ground.

Felwinter rushed forward to seize upon him, but Ikoris rose with frightening speed. While the Wolf's sword lay still on the earth, his rose to meet the Lord of Iron, who was driven onto the blade by his own eager momentum.

The Exo lowered his eyes to behold the wound. The saber was in him to its hilt. He looked back to his opponent, whose helmet was dissipating. He spat blood upon the grass before smiling at him grimly. "You have grown reckless, Felwinter. You were not always so."

The scholar responded with a headbutt. Ikoris' unarmored skull gave little resistance, and it caved with a sickening crunch. He fell to the ground, dead.

Felwinter cast his eyes downward once more, and pulled the Awoken's saber from his chest. He tossed it to the side, uninterested. The Warlord's Ghost had appeared, and now hovered above his remains. He walked toward it slowly. The window had passed. A fierce shotgun formed in his grasp, and he raised it in anticipation...to the approximate height of the warlord's chest.

As his Ghost's Light washed over him and he was returned to life, Ikoris slid forward immediately, a spray of lead peppering his shoulder. He caught Felwinter's rifle at its barrel's end, which he forced upward. Flames surged from his palm, melting the steel at his fingers. With the last of his momentum, the Risen drove his remaining hand upward, sending the _Xiphos_ within into his opponent's midsection. He tore the dagger further skyward, and it exited beneath Felwinter's chin.

Roak watched attentively as the duel progressed, silently celebrating those of his ally's blows which landed, and lamenting those that failed.

When Ikoris had fallen, an involuntary cheer had escaped the frontiersman. Yet this mirth proved temporary, as what next transpired prompted anything but joy.

Roak watched through the scope of his rifle as Ikoris rose again and, with unfathomable speed, plunged his blade into Felwinter's chest. He watched as the length of bronze rent the armor at his friend's breast, and then that of his throat. He watched as the corpse of his fellow Iron Lord dropped to the dust.

Felwinter's Ghost appeared, mere inches from where his body now lay. The drone turned about to face its master's killer. Ikoris met its gaze. His hand reached to grasp it. Slowly. Hesitantly.

Roak's mind raced.

Felwinter would never forgive him for what he intended to do.

 _There is no honor in war_ , he offered himself in solace.

Then he aimed, shifted his finger to the trigger, and pulled.

Gheleon, still seated atop his steed, had observed the fight from a distance. He had not, as one might expect, pressed to the ring of spectators in order to facilitate a quick response should his ally be bested. No, he had expected that Felwinter would fall. His fate was sealed.

Still, the frontiersman harbored hopes for his friend's survival, and had internally rejoiced when Ikoris was felled. But, as was soon evidenced, it was not to be. When Felwinter had fallen to the Awoken's bronze blade, Gheleon looked on in quiet acceptance.

Time seemed to slow, and the world took on a sense of surreality in the following moments. The warlord stepped forward and reached for the Ghost of his vanquished foe, hungry flames rising from his fingertips to lick its surface. These sputtered out unexpectedly as he stumbled forward, a clean hole punched through his chest in the wake of a crimson spray. The tool of its creation sped onward, disappearing into the Ambrosians gathered at the scene's edge. These warriors, men and Risen alike, watched in frozen terror as a second bullet struck their king, and he dropped to his knees.

In the next moment, Ikoris' corpse impacted the barren earth, and chaos ensued.

At the onset of the battle, Ikoris found himself within the Ward of one of his Chosen. The warrior had rushed to his aid at the duel's conclusion, as the tides of the two forces rose to engulf their respective emissaries. His defender had chosen to disregard the unprotected Ghost of Felwinter hovering nearby. He had chosen wisely, for Ikoris would have killed him had he decided otherwise.

Yet as it was, the Awoken sought refuge within the shelter of his conjuring and, rather than join the sudden fray of lead and steel, he watched.

* * *

They were outnumbered

This was Felwinter's first thought, upon his resurrection. His second was of ripping the heart from whatever coward had elected to strip him of his rightful death.

The scholar scanned the area about his person, searching for the unseen perpetrator. The ringing of blades overwhelmed his thoughts, and he saw only the dead and those soon to join them. An explosion sounded to his left, knocking him to the ground once more. Screaming silence washed over his sensors, and he was engulfed in darkness.

Felwinter rose again, his movements plagued by languor. He stumbled backward into the host of his allies and clawed weakly at the side of Gheleon's mount, which still held its master. The other Lord hefted Felwinter onto the saddle and began to retreat eastward, returning from whence they had come. He did not speak: they would not have known if he had.

Those who saw their leaders' departure followed suit. Those who did not fought on with honor, and died.

When the sharp reports of the guns and the singing of swords had ceased, only the groans of the dying remained to spoil the silence. Chosen moved about the battlefield, tending to those of their men who could be helped and halting the cries of all others. The ward that had shielded Ikoris dissipated, yet still he did not move-he only stared.

He looked not eastward, where the Wolves' disorderly withdrawal could be seen in the distance.

No, the Lord of Ambros stared rather to the west, toward a particular, barren knoll. He did not blink. He saw a flash of motion at its crest, sudden and brief, and then he saw no more.

Ikoris sprang into action with sudden, grim purpose, seeing to the proper treatment of his men-both the lost and the living. He spoke not, nor did he signal to his subordinates. He forged to the battlefield's edge, and rode on at a canter; to the east; to war.

The host followed at its own pace, leaving the scene of the skirmish and the Wolves' remains scattered about it, each untouched since the moment of his death.

 **End of Chapter 8**

* * *

 _Tips, criticism, questions, etcetera are greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading my work._

 _ **Author's Note:**_ This chapter was cut short, as I had intended for it to encompass what I now realize will likely amount to at least three chapters' worth of material. I apologize for any seeming inconsistencies or oddities that this decision may have given rise to.


	9. Thermopylae

**Chapter 9, Part 1**

The remnants of Gheleon's vanguard came into Silimar's view just as evening began its approach, but the sight of their haggard forms did little to lighten the weight of dusk. Silimar did not call to them upon their return, as he might under better circumstances, but-in a measure both of respect for those absent and wariness of those not-elected instead to maintain his silence until his allies drew to the camp's edge. Upon their doing so, Silimar requested Gheleon's presence and, ensuring that his call had been heard, sidled away from the encampment. Once he felt himself sufficiently distant from the bulk of his and his companion's hosts, the Iron Lord turned to address his fellow.

Gheleon lagged behind Silimar somewhat, and was himself trailed by Felwinter. Silimar paid no heed to the presence of the latter.

"What is your intelligence?" Silimar queried, though he had already guessed much.

"We lost," Gheleon stated flatly.

"By what measure? Felwinter returns. Is Ikoris not felled?"

"No," the frontiersman began. "We were forced into retreat."

At this, Silimar was silent once more, and his countenance would have darkened visibly, were any about him capable of beholding it through the plates of his helm.

"It wasn't just a retreat," a voice called from behind Gheleon, low and hollow. "It was a rout. A damned rout."

The voice belonged, of course, to Felwinter, who stood at some distance from his conversing companions, his posture slumped and pain evident in his tone. He seemed drunken with rage.

"Did you not challenge Ikoris, as you intended?" Silimar asked in confusion, turning slightly to face the conversation's most recent contributor.

"I did," Felwinter stated, "But there was no honor in it. That was stolen."

"I take it that the Lord of Ambros is not so honorable as he would have it seem?"

"Ikoris did not cheat." Felwinter answered.

"Then who?" his fellow pressed, perplexed.

"I have my suspicions," the scholar began, but was interrupted by an uncharacteristic inquiry on the part of Gheleon.

"How are the others?" the frontiersman questioned, his speech too quick, and his tone suggesting too deep an interest.

Silimar was for a moment caught off-guard, but eventually answered, an unspoken question in his voice. "I do not know. Timur rides north, to challenge one of the Ambrosians' lesser hosts, and Perun south. The others remain at the Refuge and the Temple, so far as my knowledge serves me. Radegast was to leave before I, though I doubt his having departed at all. At the time of my parting, he yet awaited Lord Felwinter's return. I suspect that his watch is kept even now."

Gheleon absorbed this information, most of which he had already possessed, in silence. This time, he allowed himself to formulate a response before speaking. "And us? What're we to do?"

Silimar gazed hard into the black slits of his ally's visor, though the latter had no way of perceiving this. "We wait, for as long as we can. Our own battle approaches. We'll need all of the help that we can get."

 **Chapter 9, Part 2**

When the scout found him, Timur was in the midst of a pensive silence. The scholar sat on the cold earth, seemingly entranced by a bronze medallion which rested in his palm. The artifact was surrounded by a strange, shifting light, which marked its presence even in the dark of night. Shallow carvings covered the object's surface, but these were indecipherable to the messenger. Despite this, he gazed upon them with great intensity, mesmerized by something in the medallion's nature, though he knew not what. Yet still, he wondered...

"Yes?" Timur asked, looking up from the artifact.

The scout's head snapped upward, and he gazed at the scholar-both mentally and physically unresponsive-for several moments before answering. "The Host of Albios is camped less than an hour's ride to the west, Lord Timur-in a pass between two bluffs. Their numbers are far greater than our own, though their ranks are chiefly men. They have lit many fires, and do not seem to care for secrecy. I think they are waiting."

"For us?" Timur questioned dryly.

"It is likely, sir."

"Then let us not disappoint. Inform the others. We leave at first light."

* * *

The Warlord SynIva sat gazing into the flames of a roaring inferno, surrounded first by a circle of his fellow Chosen, and then by a host of his men. Many other fires burned throughout the camp-both within the pass and atop the cliffs which framed it-, but all were dwarfed by this, which sat at its heart.

The smoke of these multitudinous blazes was left to drift freely into the early night, in the hopes that it might draw the Wolves to their doom.

Unfortunately, this announcement of their presence had not come without cost. Thanks to the frigid climes of their home (and the consequent sparsity of vegetation therein), many of those trees and thistles that they now burned had had to be felled leagues away, and were then borne to their fate on the shoulders of his subordinates-Risen, men, and boys all the same. Not all had proven capable of withstanding the burden, and so their path was marked with the graves of those weak of frame, though strong of heart.

 _There is honor in death_ , SynIva asserted to himself.

But the deaths of his men, no matter how honorable, would be in vain, should the Wolves elect to refuse his challenge.

 _And if they do_ , the Warlord mused, _then they are cowards, and they ought to be damned._

He knew that they would not.

SynIva stood, and his lessers bowed in response, as was ritual. Spreading his arms outward, and closing his eyes as if in meditation, the Risen allowed himself to be enveloped in iridescence. When the radiance about him faded, SynIva's form was clad in the stark white of his armor, and a sleek helm reminiscent of those once worn by the Spartans of Greece rested on his head, topped by a crest of deep purple. A cloak of similar coloration flowed from his shoulders to the gray earth at his feet. In one hand he clasped a great rounded shield of exceptional craft, and the shaft of a slender spear stood in the other. The ring of Chosen about him followed suit, emerging into their fellows' sight armed and armored much as their Lord, though their helms were without bristles.

As the Lord of Albios and his companions made for the mouth of the pass, he spoke a command. The men not already perched atop the surrounding cliffs took flight at this, winding up steep passes to reach their summits, and there setting watch.

* * *

"Why does _he_ get a rifle?" Charillus whined, flinching at the sound of his own voice amid the whispers of the camp, which were themselves few in number. His father and brothers stared at him in surprise for a moment, the prior, along with the second youngest of his sons, still grasping the item in question.

"Because I'm older, and I-" the elder boy began, but was halted at the rise of his father's hand.

"Because _you_ are not to fight, Charlie," the man asserted, grinding his teeth. "Do you understand?"

The boy only nodded, his eyes cast downward in an effort to avoid his father's ire.

"I _said_ do-," the latter started, his anger mounting.

"Yes," the boy replied, his own tone conveying great annoyance. "But _you_ said that _none_ of us were going to fight. _You_ said that SynI-" His father's eyes hardened. " _Lord_ SynIva-and the others-would handle it."

"They will."

"So why do _they_ need guns?" Charlie questioned, motioning toward his brothers, both of whom were armed with marksmen's rifles as well as sidearms.

"Damnit, boy!" his father exclaimed, his volume far exceeding that of his son's earlier outburst. He took a moment to calm himself before continuing, looking into the eyes of his youngest child with a brief softness seldom outwardly expressed. "I only want to keep you safe. The Wolves, however wretched, follow the same code as we. None will harm you, so long as you are unarmed."

"Okay..." the boy conceded. "But can't I at least have a pistol or something? Just in case? I could hide it. No one would know."

"You will have no need of any weapon, Charlie," his father assured him.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

 **Chapter 9, Part 3**

By the time of Timur and his host's departure, at the first show of dawn, a blanket of fog had begun to gather upon the gray plain that surrounded them-a notable occurrence, given the general aridity of the region. Once they had drawn near enough to their destination to observe the place of their opponents' refuge, the fog had thickened substantially. Thankfully, however, the cloud was also drawn closer to the ground, and so hid little from sight.

Before the party of Risen stood a sheer wall of stone, which arched forward at its center. A ravine split the precipice at its crest, continuing into the formation for an appreciable distance before vanishing from view. It seemed to beckon them. This invitation was not a benevolent one, however-rather, the scene held an eerie sort of quality. Fog spilled from the canyon's mouth, and jagged rubble lay about its sides, resulting from ages of weather and wear.

Yet even more threatening were those things spotted atop the cliffs: the slender smoke trails of dead fires-their flames having feasted throughout the night only to starve at Sol's return-and the purple banners of Albios, each bearing an angular white helm as its sole symbol. The latter, the onlooking Lords knew, had been the last sight of a great many souls. Partially in recognition of this, many of those in Timur's host were hesitant to approach the site further.

Still, neither the smoke nor the standards brought the brunt of their fear. That fell instead to the party of Chosen who stood at the cliff's center, guarding the pass which ran it through. The Warlords were arranged in three rows: the nearest of three abreast, and the others of four. They stood unmoving amid the shifting fog, as statues of stark white, armed and armored for battle. Only the rustling of their cloaks and the hairs of their leader's crest betrayed the true nature of their existence. They perceived the Wolves' arrival, but their voices did not cry out, nor did their eyes shift from their level gaze.

Timur rode forward at a canter. His dark steed might have recalled to the minds of his watchers the old legends of Death, were any still living who could tell such tales. He allowed his helm to dissipate before addressing the rival force.

"Warriors of Albios," Timur called, his voice alone daring to challenge the calm. "Why have you come to this place?"

Timur, of course, already knew their answer.

"We come for war," a voice replied grimly. "And for honor. And, if Fate should see it fit, for death."

"Then I cannot dissuade you from your cause?" Timur responded, his voice that of one making an observation rather than an inquiry.

"You cannot," the speaker confirmed.

Timur's eyes grew hard, and his voice low. "Then you shall find all that you seek."

Having said all that was due, the scholar wheeled his horse about and crossed the fog once more.

* * *

Charlie stood at his father's side, his brothers behind them, and listened-just as all others in the camp-to the brief exchange. Though he was to have no part in the coming battle, the boy could feel the tension mounting about him, and was himself quite anxious because of it. Only the Lords below seemed truly at ease.

When all was said, and the already faint hoofbeats of the Wolf's mount had faded with distance, the men sat, unmoving, and waited.

All was now done that was to be done.

That is, aside from the dying.

Banners fluttered in the wind.

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Perhaps it would rain-a heavy rain: one to drown out the screams and the gunfire; to wash away the blood.

Perhaps it would snow, and bury their corpses.

Or maybe, just maybe, their bodies would lie in the open, for all to see…and they would rot.

Charlie felt now, more than ever, that he needed a weapon.

A shot rang out, and a corpse struck the ground.

What followed could only be described as Hell, though those who survived would not wish to recount it at all.

* * *

"Shields!" SynIva cried, presenting his own between himself and the attacking Wolves. The sounds of motion emanated from behind the Warlord as his fellows did the same-that is, all save for the Lord at his right, who lay motionless in the dirt. Another slid forward to fill the fallen's place, shielding his resurrection from unfriendly eyes. More rounds began to pepper the warriors of Albios, though these were lesser than that which they succeeded, and so did little more than break against the Ambrosians' shields.

When the suppressive fire began to slow, the Chosen responded in kind, their rifle-fire tearing into the nearest of the Wolves, who had trusted in the protection of several insufficiently-sized boulders. Though some were initially felled, their Ghosts were slight enough in size to gain the stones' full cover, and so the Lords' deaths were only fleeting. Once they readied to reenter the fray, however, those of their comrades still atop mounts shifted tactics, fanning outward to encircle the Ambrosians before them. Making note of this, SynIva called for the first ranks of his warriors to lower their spears. Just as his command was given, the Lords of Iron charged. At this, those of the Chosen still bearing rifles opened fire, unseating a handful of their prospective attackers before they could advance. Still, nigh upon a dozen of the Wolves continued onward, drawing their own blades to meet the spears of Albios.

* * *

Timur did not himself join in the melee, electing instead to remain at a distance, and to watch. His pause was born neither of fear nor any sense of self-importance, but was rather one of necessity.

 _One more sword_ , Timur thought, _will make little difference._

Though he had not, assuredly, wished for such a demonstration, the validity of the scholar's assertion was soon evidenced before his very eyes. His warriors closed in, perceiving themselves to hold the advantage characteristic of a cavalry charge, only to find themselves in the next moment flat upon the earth, their steeds felled by the spears of Chosen or the gunfire of those at the heart of the Ambrosians' seemingly unbreakable formation. Those nearest SynIva's ranks were uniquely unfortunate, for, as they were thrown from their dying mounts, many landed among their opponents. The warriors of Albios seized upon this opportunity without hesitation, sending the Ghosts of these Wolves into the abyss alongside their charges.

Timur watched as a quarter of his force was lost in an instant, never to rise again, and ordered a retreat. The other Lords responded to this command with a speed which betrayed their profound relief at (and expectance of) its utterance. For some, this eagerness proved fatal. While a sizable portion of the Iron Lords were able to escape with haste under aid of their Light, the remainder, who had become drained throughout the short course of the attack, were forced to flee through more conventional means. Of the latter, two died their final deaths in their effort to withdraw. The first-a scholar just as Timur, though of fewer years-fell to the thrust of SynIva's spear as he turned to flee, his Ghost subsequently crumbling within the Warlord's grasp. The second met his end as an orb of void energy, having landed along his course, detonated at his feet, and he was tossed lifeless into the low fog yards away. His Ghost, in full view of the forces of Albios, met its fate in the sights of a rifleman.

With over a third of his host now gone, and with nothing of consequence to show for their sacrifice, Timur was forced to alter his approach once more, directing the survivors to fall back to the distant position of their initial approach: a slight ridge far outside of the Ambrosians' optimal engagement range.

Once this was done, Timur called his Risen to a halt, and offered a brief word of encouragement. "If our enemies will not break formation," he began, "then we will break it for them. Let them taste of the death which they crave. Fire at will."

Calm reigned for a spell following the scholar's instruction, as those in his company set about in preparation for the task at hand.

Timur himself felt a pang of regret, and of shame, at his sin.

 _We have fought on their terms_ , _now they will fight on ours. There is no dishonor in that._

This attempt at consolation was, Timur knew, a futile one. He also knew that it was a lie.

He did not seek forgiveness for the use of any arm at his disposal. He did not, in truth, seek forgiveness even for that which he had just ordered.

His sin was unknown to any but himself.

His sin was unforgiveable.

Most damningly, his sin was yet to come.

The call of sniper-fire at his side tore Timur from his thoughts, just as it rent the silence which had facilitated them. This was followed by a thunder of similar rounds, accented by the regular reports of smaller-caliber rifles. In response, two of those Ambrosians who stood at their formation's front-most rank, as well as another in that immediately behind, collapsed to the earth.

Taking note of this, and intent upon barring the Warlords' return to life, one among Timur's force shifted his aim from the mass of Risen before him to an exposed Ghost at its anterior edge. Within an instant, an iridium-cored round sailed across the sea of fog which separated it from its destination, en route to the drone's central eye.

In an apparent effort of self-sacrifice, SynIva charged forward, positioning himself so that he might catch the bullet upon his own shield, rather than witness its extinguishing the Light of his fellow. As had been previously evidenced, however, the Ambrosians' shields were incapable of effectively denying the force of rounds such as this, and so, it seemed, the Warlord was to trade his life for that of his lesser.

Yet, before the projectile could pierce that metal which stood between itself and the life which it was to claim, the energy of the Void poured across the shield's surface, beginning at its center and expanding outward, its behavior reminiscent of a viscous liquid. Upon striking the shield's coating, the sniper's round seemed to evaporate, disappearing as an ethereal wisp.

Despite having served its initial purpose, the ward of Light continued to expand outward from the Warlord's shield, curving backward gently to glide across the proffered shields of his fellows behind, who had arranged themselves into the semblance of a Greek Phalanx. The ward closed at the warriors' backs, forming a sort of oblong whole, and encasing the entirety of SynIva's host-both the living and the Ghosts of the dead-within its bounds.

This, unfortunately for SynIva, left the Ambrosians' spears, which protruded from their protective ward, as their only means of offense.

The onlooking Lords of Iron made note of this, and one among their ranks sought to utilize their adversaries' self-induced handicap to his advantage, striding forward to cross much of that distance which separated their forces and flinging himself skyward, a ball of void forming in his hands. Before he could unleash his attack, however, the Risen was struck down amid the sharp reports of several rifles, the rounds which they denoted having caught him first in the right shoulder, and then several times in the crest of his helm. His killers-several of half a dozen Warlords situated atop the very cliffs which he had so brazenly approached moments prior-quickly and similarly disposed of his Ghost, delivering both into the cold grasp of death, which was for the first and last time in either's recollection wholly unyielding.

Timur, alongside the remnants of his dwindling force, watched on in grim acceptance as another of his brethren in arms died a true death.

Yet the scholar had little time for sorrow, as a fresh volley of rounds soon rained down upon his host's position, threatening to share with those living the fate their dearly departed.

The delivery of this most recent barrage, however, was not the work of a lonely few of SynIva's Chosen. Rather, it was the undertaking of a great many individuals-both Men and the Warlords for whom they fought.

To most among the Lords of Iron, this development-while certainly an unwelcome one-was of no particular consequence. They had known the Host of Albios to be composed primarily of SynIva's subjects, rather than his inner-circle. This was an inevitability, and an unremarkable one at that. While the Iron Lords, as the self-styled guardians of humanity, refused to allow Men to die by their order, the Ambrosians were not generally opposed to the practice. So, those in Timur's force decided, they would fight on all the same, and kill, however grudgingly, all who stood between themselves and their greater good.

These sentiments, while prevalent among the gathered Lords, were not universally held. Some showed far less restraint, though fought for a common cause. Others-mostly former Warlords, still undergoing the process of moral conversion-relished in their killing, no matter of whom.

Yet only one disregarded thoughts of philosophy altogether, despite his being the greatest of their philosophers.

No, to think would only prolong his pain, and his regret, at what he was to do; at his sin.

He could not think.

He _must_ not think, lest he be destroyed by the failure of inaction.

He must only do.

Timur ran forward, breaking from the cluster of his beleaguered fellows, and called upon his Light to demand that he be released from the chains of gravity, which bound him to the earth.

The universe listened, and obeyed.

When next the scholar felt, he found himself far from ground. Still, he pushed ever upward, ignoring the bite of hot lead on his flesh, and the taste of his own blood.

Again, Timur fought the burden of awareness, and was without thought.

His next conscious effort was to clutch the amulet at his breast, and to channel into it all that he could-both of his Light and of his life.

His shields broke.

The blood stilled in his veins.

The whisper of death beckoned him.

His last thought was of a spark, surrounded by darkness-flickering.

He was fading.

And then the spark steadied, and began to expand.

His mind's eye burned with the light of a great flash.

In an instant, the spark was gone, and Timur saw only dark.

* * *

Charillus sat in silence, his back to a small boulder, and recited a list of his grievances within the confines of his mind.

 _"_ _The Lords will take care of it,"_ he thought, his internal voice adopting a tone of discontented mockery. _Sure they will._

A frenzy of gunfire called from the cliff's edge, beyond the opposite face of the stone behind which Charlie sat. The boy noted that, unless his ears deceived him, far more than eighteen guns had just sounded.

His irritability only grew as the order was given to fire at will.

He did not, the youth told himself, care to have a gun any longer. He would forgo even a knife, so long as he was permitted to gaze upon the battlefield, just as everyone else.

In spite of his assertions, however, Charlie was not alone in being denied sight of battle. Although it was not the policy of his superior (that being the Lord of Ambros himself), Lord SynIva had ordered that all men of ten and older (for, as he said, "there are only men in war") accompany their fathers on the march east. Though some would sooner die than obey such a command, this was an established custom for the people of Albios, and so was observed without protest. As such, a score of boys about Charillus' age-and indeed some beneath it-had ventured to these cliffs as he, their primary contribution to the war effort being their service as pack mules. Many of these stood beside their fathers at the bluff's edge. Others did not, having been tucked away in perceived safety while the Lords were unaware, just as Charlie.

He, of course, chose to ignore this contradiction, refusing to acknowledge anything that threatened to suggest the validity of his father's decision.

And so the boy sat on, restless, his mind unable to cope with the loss of his first battle, which wore on outside of his view.

 _At least_ _I can listen_ , he offered himself in solace.

Yet this was of little comfort, as Charlie soon realized that-while he certainly could _listen_ -he could not hear a thing. The battle had gone silent.

This piqued his interest, and he could resist the urge to abandon his shelter no longer.

Hastily pivoting toward the cliff's distant edge, Charillus' thoughts shifted from curiosity to horror, and his face grew pale.

The others simply stood, unmoving, at the verge of the drop. Their ranks had thinned, fanning out so that each could see what was beyond, though Charlie's view was obstructed by the barrier presented by their presence. Due to this, he saw no choice but to further approach their position.

The boy ventured onward, slipping through the crowd with the aid of his diminutive stature, until he neared the edge. He then noted, catching his breath, that his path had ended directly beside the place where his father and brothers now stood. Luckily, his presence seemed to have gone as of yet unnoticed, as his kin were entranced just as all others by whatever was before them. Upon realizing this, Charlie sighed in relief, and turned his gaze toward the object of their interest.

There was something in the sky-something _big_.

It looked, Charillus' thought, like a giant blossom: the petals of a gargantuan flower, unfolding across the sky.

Or perhaps it was a cloud. A massive, purple cloud…shaped like-

It was an explosion.

And-however slowly-it was expanding.

Soon, it would reach the ground on which they stood.

Charlie tore his eyes from the sight, spun away from the edge, and ran. In doing so, he initially drove himself against his father's side, breaking the man from his stupor. He quickly recovered, however, and ran on.

"Charlie…" his father whispered in confusion as his son fled. "Charlie, what are you doing?"

Charillus did not respond to the inquiry, instead fleeing further across the cliff's height.

"Charlie," his father repeated, with greater force. Unbeknownst to him, the outer reaches of the ethereal blast were now only moments away. In fact, he did not recall the explosion at all. He felt as if he had just awoken from a long slumber.

Charlie ran on, only renewing his speed upon hearing the distant call.

His father, now deeply concerned, took a moment to muster his strength. Then, with a mixture of anger and fear, he unleashed another cry. "Charlie!" he shouted. "Stop!"

The boy did as he was told, his headlong flight grinding to a halt, and slowly turned to face his father. There were tears in his eyes, as well as the reflection of that which he saw: a growing ring of violet energy, surging forth to engulf all who stood before it-including his family.

For an instant, father and son locked eyes. In that fleeting moment, which to both lasted for a time that seemed eternal, Charlie spoke. Though his voice was only a whisper, and the distance between them far too great to convey its sound, the message within endured.

"I love you."

Charillus' father closed his eyes, and in the next second was enveloped in the light of an explosion which he had never consciously seen, but had nonetheless expected.

Yet the blast did not leave ash and ruin in its wake. Instead, all stood as they had been, the faces of most still set to the sky.

Charlie let out an exultant sigh as the outer ring passed him, and-blinking the tears from his eyes-looked again to the distant figure of his father. The tears quickly returned.

The boy stood, overwhelmed by the emotional vertigo induced by his circumstance, and stared once more into the eyes of the man across the clifftop.

They were cold.

Where moments before he had seen in those eyes a great depth of emotion, Charlie now saw only the distant glaze of apathy. He might have dismissed this as a temporary blank, perhaps brought about by exposure to the blast, were it not for the gun in his father's hands. The gun, which was aimed at the son of its wielder, and which the prior did not doubt would soon be put to use.

Charlie fell to his knees, and an involuntary whimper escaped his lips. All around him was the sound of gunfire, as those few still capable of feeling or thought were executed; by their friends; by their brothers; by their sons; by their fathers…

Charlie gazed into the empty face before him, and a single thought crossed his mind.

He needed a gun.

Another shot joined those which ripped through the air of the clifftop. Another life-extinguished. Another flame, snuffed out. It was one of many.

Charlie lay dead upon the uncaring earth, a hole punched through his chest.

His father, unblinking, turned from the corpse of his son, and threw himself from the cliff's edge.

* * *

"Hold your ground!" SynIva commanded, speaking both to himself and his subordinates, as a hail of living flesh descended upon his host. The bodies of his men, yet filled with the breath of life, fell atop and about the ward over their heads. Some impaled themselves on the spears of himself and his fellows. Others died upon impact, either with the ward or with the ground beside it. A rare few survived the fall, and proceeded to attack their superiors' protective barrier with whatever means were available to them-be that bullets, blades, or their own bones.

This was, the Lord of Albios concluded, decidedly unnatural.

While the presence of the ward in which he stood did prevent his warriors from responding to this apparent mutiny in any meaningful way, it was also all that stood between their survival and their drowning in the bodies of their previous subjects. For this reason, it was sustained-an effort which cost much of its inhabitants' strength, and the entirety of their offensive capacity. SynIva did, however, order that his phalanx advance, in hopes of escaping the pass while the opportunity to do so remained.

Suppressing their thoughts and putting their focus to the task at hand, the host of Risen obeyed, marching forward in step with their commander as they waded through a growing mass of dead and dying. Unfortunately, their progress soon stilled, as the Men above noticed their intent, and their path was quickly blocked by a pile of shattered boulders and stones.

Having been effectively relieved of their only course of action-save abandoning their sanctuary, which was suicide-, SynIva's Chosen were left only to weather the storm, to listen, and to watch.

A few lonely sprays of gunfire sounded from the distant clifftops as the Risen thereon resisted their fates, and those trapped below drew from these some modicum of hope…until they were silenced. It was then that all thoughts of survival were turned to those of death. Sensing the shift in atmosphere, SynIva addressed his companions.

"Victory," he began, "is not with him who lives to tell the tale: it is with him whose tale is worth the telling."

A solemn silence followed, as he turned to face his fellows.

"Let us fight, today, and die with honor, knowing in our hearts that we will not be forgotten."

At this, the Warlord turned again toward his adversaries, his men firing vainly upon him all the while, and saw that which would deliver him to his fate. Far across the plain stood a Lord of Iron, his lone figure far from those of his comrades (save Timur, who lay at his back). His stance was set, and a cloak hung at his shoulders, limp in the morning's calm. He held in his grasp the orange fire of Sol-in the shape of a revolver.

The first round, with the power of a star, broke upon its target's ward. The second, fired at the same angle, seemed destined to meet a similar end. Before the charge could reach its destination, however, SynIva lowered his shield, separating him from his allies' common barrier, and surged forward with it held before him.

The bullet made impact, disintegrating the shield as well as that gauntlet which held it. SynIva charged on, crashing through the stones before him and approaching his attacker at breakneck speed.

Another shot was sent on its way, aimed at SynIva's lowered head. It landed, turning the Warlord to ash. In his place, mere yards from the Wolf who had felled him, floated his Ghost. The drone looked to the figure before it, unblinking, and waited.

 _One second._

The Wolf hefted a shotgun, and took his aim.

 _Two seconds._

His finger fell to the trigger.

 _Three seconds._

The weapon sounded, tearing the construct before it asunder.

The Lord of Albios was no more.

* * *

Once Timur gathered the strength of body and of will to raise his head from the earth, he found his eyes clouded by a haze. This was primarily because he did indeed rest amid the low-lying fog which covered the tundra…but there was another sort of shroud over him as well, this cast upon his mind rather than his sight. Neither veil, however, could bar him from sensation altogether, or from thought.

His first observation was of a faint war cry, made quiet by mental as opposed to physical distance. The scholar's hearing was forced into focus as the screams of bullets sounded above him, soaring toward an unseen enemy. His vision cleared, too, as he placed his palms to the dirt and lifted himself upward. He then realized that he was not alone; present before him was the figure of his sole protector, who had taken up a guarding stance and was firing imprecisely at a nearing force, the proximity of which was signaled by the thunder of steps, which was felt more so than heard. This suggested what was, in Timur's current state, likely the imminence of death.

The first of his thoughts, however, did not rest so lightly upon him. He thought of his sin. He thought of the stain which would forever mar him-not in the eyes of others, but in his own. What he had done, the scholar knew, would surely leave a scar upon his soul.

Of course, only philosophers had time to believe in such things as souls any longer.

Truly, despite his most certainly being a philosopher, even Timur hadn't the time for such thoughts at the moment, as he was torn upward from his place and from his musings by the hand of another, who wasted no time in explanation before shoving the scholar forcibly away from himself. Timur stumbled, grasped for balance, and-failing to gain hold of it-fell back to the ground, twisting as he did so in order to look upon his protector.

What he saw was no more than a corpse upon the shaft of a black spear, and the broken shards of a Ghost.

Summoning what little Light he had managed to regain since the commission of his sin, Timur propelled himself across the flat earth as he would across the sky, skimming its rock-strewn surface at the cost of his armor's shielding, and ending much closer to what remained of his host.

Rushing forward in his superior's defense, one among the Lords of Iron vaulted into the air and sent a sphere of Light to descend upon the enemies' phalanx. Its arc was uninterrupted, and it struck the formation to the right of its forward rank, shattering the ward about it and decimating the southeasternmost section of the host.

Knowing that none among them who now fell were destined again to rise, the Ambrosians broke into a blind charge, each keeping in step with his brethren despite being apathetic toward any other given aspect of existence. As the Warlords' jagged ranks neared Timur's own, the latter opened fire, unleashing a hail of leaden fury upon the foremost Chosen. To these rounds, two fell.

The Men of Albios, still nestled atop the cliffs to the west, had at this time begun to break their minds free of Timur's spell, and now set their sights upon the Wolves once more. This process of liberation had been neither instantaneous for, nor synchronized among, the Men, however, and as such much infighting had taken place, with some on each side spilling the blood of their friends and fellows. Once the side of original allegiance arose victorious, its members were left to chip away at Timur's forces once more.

This quickly proved to little avail, for as many of their rounds fell short as hit their marks, to the detriment of their Lords. In recognition of this, their fire ceased. They were too distant and too few to be of use any longer.

This was of little consequence, as their superiors hadn't any time to consider the possibility of reinforcements, nor even to count the losses inflicted by their men's previous attempt at support, for they were quickly set upon by the blades of Iron.

Few of SynIva's Chosen endured to the edge of their foes' host, and fewer still went beyond it. Yet their presence-however numerically insignificant-did succeed in sowing further chaos through their adversaries' already disorderly ranks.

To Timur's right, a figure was run through by a spear, which he survived only to lose his head to a slighter blade. His Ghost was left untouched, and his killer dropped by a spray of lead.

To the scholar's left, another of his charges fell, his breast pierced at the tip of a sword. Again, his Ghost was spared, while his better received no such mercy.

The third and final of those remaining Ambrosian Lords ran straight to Timur himself. His progress was slowed, and his shield dropped, due to his catching a blade in the shoulder, but he continued on. Timur permitted himself to step several times backward, as he was currently unequipped for any engagement of a close-quarters nature.

His attacker pursued, either unaware of or uncaring toward the sword which now materialized in his grasp. Timur knelt, and the Chosen drove himself onto the blade. This did not serve to end the warrior, however, and the blow was reciprocated as a dagger plunged upward into Timur's chest, piercing his heart.

Being dead, Timur was, of course, forced to release his blade, along with the one upon it. As he, too, had been dealt a mortal wound, the scholar's battlefield acquaintance was quick to join him upon the ground.

Timur's Ghost appeared, and he was revived. The other's lifeforce lingered on.

"What have you done?" the Warlord asked, his tone one of anger as well as confusion.

"Only what was necessary," Timur dismissed, kneeling at his opponent's side. "Tell me," he continued, "what is your name?"

"Lineas," came the faint reply.

"You fought well and honorably, Lineas. I will remember you." This was said in consolation, but was true nonetheless.

"You turned our men against us; against each-other," Lineas accused, refusing the gesture. "You meddle with powers of darkness. You are a sorcerer…a warlock."

"Yes," Timur agreed, his voice slow and grave. "I am."

He spoke at this time only to himself, however, as Lineas' breathing had ceased.

 **End of Chapter 9**

 _Please do not hesitate to offer questions, criticism, or comments of any kind. As stated, I am new to fanfiction, and I would love to hear your thoughts on my work._


	10. Followers

**Chapter 10, Part 1**

 _The previous day…_

Locke sat upon a sizable stone at the center of his camp-given into his care, some hours ago, by Roak-, and scanned his surroundings with time-worn vigilance. While most about him lay in the open, guarded from the elements by nothing aside from the crater in which their camp was situated, Locke was warmed by a heavy cloak-another benefit of his friendship with the Wolf. Beneath his cloak was sheathed a third gift from Roak, of which he was constantly aware. This was a dagger of sorts, its blade small, and its design unremarkable, but of exceptional craft and sharpness. It was his only weapon.

This is not to suggest that he was otherwise defenseless, however. Roak had appointed, to keep the peace in his stead, several individuals from within the refugees' ranks who he felt trustworthy. Due to his being decidedly unpopular among the members of his host (largely as a consequence of his conscripting them to a cause for which they cared little, and which promised death as the logical culmination of their efforts), the number of his loyalists was few, and fewer still were suited for the task at hand. Roak, having little choice otherwise, armed them all the same.

Thus, there was left to rule in the Wolf's absence a regime composed almost entirely of two sorts of individuals: the spineless children, who knew themselves to be as much, and who wouldn't dare fire their weapons even in the direst of circumstances; and the reckless youths, who, having for the first time the authority to end a life, sought to do so at the slightest provocation. Outside of these, Roak had empowered only two.

The first was, of course, Locke, who-despite being the others' appointed superior-hadn't the physical means to do much at all concerning combat (being, as he was, one-handed).

The second was a boy several years Locke's elder, by the name of Mason, who sat at his right. Though Roak had made an effort to learn most of the refugees' names, he associated these names not with individuals-each having their own unique personalities, experiences, and such-but with faces. The face of Mason, it should be noted, recalled to the Wolf's memory the night of his first encountering the refugees, now some days past. It was the face of he who-when the Scavengers came, and all others shrank into the shadows-had stood his ground in order to save the life of a then-unconscious Locke, and in doing so had nearly lost his own. For this reason, it was to Mason that Roak had truly confided the camp and its inhabitants, though neither was made explicitly aware of this, either in word or in thought.

This new order, Roak had known, could not resist the pull of chaos for long-nor did he expect it to. Upon taking his leave, at the birth of a dawn that had since passed, the Warlord had been fully intent upon returning within the span of a few hours. And so he had left, on what was to become the routine task of scouting ahead of his force (in order to ensure their safe travels), and had given a final instruction to his successors, which was offered largely in jest. It was thus: "Try not to kill each other until I get back."

To the spineless children among his ranks, the mere suggestion of the possibility of their killing each other served only as further cause for fright.

To their more optimistic counterparts, the Warlord's presenting his final comment as a suggestion rather than an order was, for all intents and purposes, a green light for their killing as they pleased.

No members of the third faction present within the camp, who have hitherto gone unmentioned, heard the Wolf's parting advice. _They_ were well away from the place of his departure, at the opposite edge of the encampment-and besides, _they_ would not have heeded his advice regardless of its tone, or of the sentiments expressed therein. You see, _they_ were those with whom Roak was decidedly unpopular…and while the Wolf and his successors were undergoing the transfer of power, _they_ were plotting.

It was of these that Locke was most wary, and it was for their plotting that he held his watch.

In the first hour of his vigil, the boy was most attentive. This was, as it would happen, the time when his guard was least necessary, for most others still slept. Most…but not all.

In the second hour, he began to grow bored, and his mind wandered. Upon realizing his mistake, he returned to his task with a renewed focus.

In the third hour, a howling wind began upon the plain, dulling Locke's senses and stirring many from their slumber.

In the fourth hour, chaos broke.

* * *

As the last of the morning's chill was melted by the dull rays of a midday sun, a figure strode across the refugee camp with an air of confidence, a rifle in his hand and several others in the arms of those at his back. His gait was quickened by the drive of purpose, and he cut from the crater's edge to its center without any delay whatever, fully expecting that those who lay in his path should move rather than force upon him the inconvenience of a detour.

He was on a mission.

He had, in fact, been on a mission for the last four hours. Now, it was time that his efforts bear fruit.

As the figure reached the heart of the encampment, he halted, and glared at another who was seated before him. He swung the barrel of his gun to face in the other's direction, but left it angled toward the ground.

The second figure stood and, attempting to disguise the fear in his eyes and in his tone by means of volume, spoke a single word: "No."

"We've waited for your friend long enough _, thief_ ," the boy with the gun stated in response, lending extra weight to the last of these words.

"Hardy…" the other pleaded, his voice weak. "Don't."

"Don't _what_?" Hardy returned, taking a step forward. A third boy, who sat on the ground beside the second, made as if to rise, and his hand grasped for a rifle that lay nearby. He abandoned this course of action, however, when Hardy raised his own rifle to point at his chest.

"We aren't supposed to fight," the second said hopelessly.

"Why would we?" his challenger questioned, keeping his rifle's aim on the greater of the two threats as he advanced. "I've already won," he added, "I just thought you should know."

Looking for the first time to those behind his foe, the appointed authority saw that this claim was not a hollow one. He recognized, along with those of Hardy's usual lackeys, the faces of many who had been chosen as his peacekeepers some hours ago. These were not the frightened children (those had surrendered their arms rather than take them up for either side in the impending conflict) but were instead their bloodthirsty fellows, who cared more for the indulgence of their desires than for the weight of their word. This left him, then, with only himself and his companion to command.

After allowing his adversaries a moment to reflect upon their plight, Hardy again advanced, and-ordering his fellows to train their rifles upon the two in place of his own-removed the gun from his less talkative foe's reach.

This left the coup's resistance with but one weapon in its possession, which was quickly put to use.

While Hardy was still stooped from the act of confiscating his companion's rifle, the seemingly unarmed figure, who was elevated some distance above both his fellow and his foe due to a stone on which he sat, tossed back the cloak about him and sprang forth with a knife in hand. As he was to some extent unfamiliar with reliance upon his left hand, and hadn't the use of his right, the attack was a clumsy one. This allowed Hardy to escape much of the blade, catching nothing more than a shallow cut down his right side and shoulder. He then responded by driving himself into his assailant, toppling him from his perch and sending both tumbling to the ground.

Once landed, Hardy easily wrested the dagger from his attacker-who was of decidedly lesser size and substance-and tossed the weapon away. This was no act of mercy, however-in fact, it was quite the opposite. Knives, Hardy had decided, would end things far too quickly.

Placing himself atop his smaller opponent, Hardy set into him with a series of blows that, while lacking in grace of form, were by no means lacking in force or ferocity. Within moments, he had drawn blood, and the struggle (if such a label could even be placed upon it, as there was truthfully little struggle at all) quickly became a spectacle. Hardy's gathered supporters circled about the two prone figures, disregarding all else. Many began to cheer. A considerable number of neutral parties arrived to spectate as well, though most of these were silent. Among the onlookers, those of Locke's peacekeepers who had thirsted for violence were most captured of all by the scene. Knowing that little resistance would be made on the part of their former leader, these simply watched, unblinking, and listened for the crack of bone.

It came-and as it did, Locke's last remaining ally, who had watched as he was beaten for some time now, took the opening presented by his enemies' distraction, and acted. Rather than spring for the forgotten rifle to his side, Mason made directly for the fray. Grasping Hardy 's wrist as he readied to deal a fresh blow, Mason pulled upward, and succeeded in separating the younger boy from his battered friend. He then threw himself to the earth, taking with him his confused opponent.

Though there had been a change in roster, the dynamic of the fight remained much the same: one participant, being of greater size and years, had a distinct advantage over his opponent. This disparity, however, was no longer in Hardy's favor.

Mason did not use his edge, as had his adversary, for the staging of a show of savagery. With each blow-of which there were few-, he targeted not Hardy's face (though this was indeed where his fist happened to land most often), but his pride. Once any charade of confidence had been wiped from his foe's countenance, and the tears were left to flow as freely upon it as the blood, Mason stopped, stood, and dusted himself off. His bested opponent lay on the earth and groped blindly about himself in what seemed a vain attempt to rise.

Mason turned to leave, pausing to aid Locke in regaining his feet, and the crowd-which had since gone silent-parted before them in unconscious recognition of a victory that was, in truth, wholly symbolic. Had they acted otherwise, he could not have hoped to stand against their will. Lead, after all, is rarely hindered in its course by such immaterial protections as a sense of honor.

Steel, as it would happen, is of a similar mindset.

As Mason and Locke began their slow departure-for the camp's edge, or for the wilderness beyond: for rest; for peace-, the figure who lay at their backs began again to stir, and, slowly, to stand. He turned, the dust upon his face streaked by tears and by trails of crimson, and struck forward with frightening speed.

His hand was not formed to a fist.

He held in his grasp some small object, and his knuckles were white with the gripping of it.

The shape in his fingers met the cloth at Mason's lower back; did not stop there; plunged onward.

The sound of metal rending flesh filled the silence.

Hardy retracted his hand, which was pursued in its retreat by a spurt of crimson. He stared in horror at the knife raised before him, his eyes wide and unblinking. After some effort, he managed to drop it. His fingers, awash with the proof of his crime, felt numb…felt frozen. Hardy looked at his bloody hand as a villain at a follower who, having crossed a line that even he dared not approach, is ignorantly proud, not knowing such a line to have ever existed. He wished to be rid of it.

Then, he lowered his gaze to the body before him.

A body it was, and nothing more. Mason was dead.

Driven by rage, and by the vengeful spirit of his broken pride, Hardy had attacked with an incredible swiftness, given his condition, and had thrust his hand as far beyond the mouth of the wound as the blade that had opened it. Such a blow would not settle, as reward, for the creation of a mere scar in its memory. It demanded blood. Death. Sacrifice. It was denied none of these.

Hardy watched a moment as blood pooled about the corpse and about Locke beside it, who had finally succumbed to his wounds and to his shock at the moment of his striking the ground, and had fallen unconscious. The killer, still in a daze, stumbled forward on the previous course of his ill-fated foe. The others, who had again crowded to look at the spectacle, parted once more-this time in horror. He was given a much wider berth than had been offered to his predecessor. As he passed through the crowd, many eyes stared at him in disbelief. Others-these belonging to his previous supporters-were cast to the earth. He was treated as a leper.

Hardy shambled unthinkingly to the camp's edge. There, he sat, and wept.

* * *

Following the murder, the refugees drifted outward to the crater's furthest reaches, as if upon a wave. Each was carried, it seemed, by the pull of a common instinct, and driven in turn from the camp's center. Once at the basin's fringe, it was there that they would remain, as surely as if they were stranded. In a way, they were.

About them was a sea, of sorts. This sea was not a violent one, however-was not plagued by any discernible tempest. It was, indeed, quite calm. No more waves broke its surface, and nothing could be seen within its waters. Truthfully, nothing could be sensed of the sea at all…for it was a sea of fear, characterized by silence, and by still. It was a sea upon which none, standing now upon the serene shores of their scattered islands, dared for another moment venture, knowing that a terrible fate soon awaited any who should be caught within its bounds. Yet still, one lingered.

This lone mariner, rather than sail for safe harbor as his fellows, had, in fact, set his anchor. Though he wished no more than any other to remain at sea, he refused to break from his moorings, electing instead to circle about his anchor, occasionally attempting to drag it along with him. This may seem a foolish course, but, you see, his anchor-however lifeless-was once his closest friend.

* * *

Noticing Locke's strain, which-despite his refusing to look even in the corpse's general direction-was indeed quite audible, Hardy mustered the will to stand, and sullenly approached the scene of his crime. He would, the boy resolved, aid in the burial of his slain foe, though he assured himself that his purpose for doing so was simply to be rid of the body.

Yet, had his motives been so void of virtue as he supposed, Hardy would not have reacted as he did (or, rather, _would_ have reacted-as he did not) to the welcome that he received upon his arrival. Spotting his approach, Locke had set upon him with a number of blows, each thrown amid a barrage of curses and tears. Hardy, for his part, simply stood, his eyes downcast, and took the beating. It was not until the smaller boy threw himself into his adversary, delivering both to the rock-strewn ground, that the latter so much as spoke.

"I'm here to help…" Hardy mumbled, more in practice of honesty than in his own defense, as he fully expected to suffer further abuse. For a while longer, his predictions proved valid-but, driven more so by the onset of fatigue than by any sense of mercy, the torrent of hate grew slow; slower; stopped altogether. At this time, rather than offer his own motives, which were plainly apparent, Locke collapsed at his enemy's side.

For some time, both lay in silence: Locke overcome by a myriad of emotions, and Hardy-though to some degree captured by his own thoughts-simply waiting for the other to rise, knowing that he should be the later to do so.

Once Locke forced himself to his feet, intent upon returning to his hopeless toil, Hardy arose at his side and, silently, took up the corpse by its arms. Locke, having only one hand, did his best to further lighten the load, and said nothing. The two made for the crater's edge.

Reaching the slope that surrounded them, and-eventually-scaling it, the bearers of the corpse forged onward, stumbling some ways across the plain beyond before halting and loosing themselves from their burden. Now, they looked about at their surroundings. There was little vegetation at all. Shrubs were few, and trees fewer. There was little, then, with which to mark a grave-save a scattering of unremarkable gray stones. Of course, there was no need at all to mark a grave that they hadn't the means to dig. It was only now that the boys recalled, almost simultaneously, as they stared dully at the body before them, that they were without a shovel. In fact, there wasn't a single shovel to be had in the entirety of their camp, nor any other instrument of sufficient resemblance.

So, the two set to gathering stones. This, too, was done in silence. Once they felt their store adequate, they began to pile the stones about the corpse. It gazed up at them in eternal indifference, Locke having to this point neglected to close its eyelids. Before the stones were set that should cover it, he reached down and did this. Prior to rising, Locke reached into his pocket, his fingers numb for a variety of reasons (of which cold was the least), and produced an all-too familiar object: the knife. He held it with as few fingers as were necessary, and at arm's length. What had, some short hours ago, once been among his most prized possessions, was now a thing of filth. It was coated from end to end with the smear of blood. He let it slip to the grave without hesitation.

Shortly thereafter, and still before the final stones had been placed, Locke slipped off his cloak-as marked as the dagger-and deposited it with all else that was to be left there. Hardy, though by no means spared the touch of blood, hadn't any clothes but those which he wore, and so remained as he was: the image of a killer. For the Hardy that had been that dawn, it was a fitting look. For the Hardy that now was, it seemed decidedly out of place.

Then the grave was sealed, and its architects glanced shortly at one another upon the placing of its capstone, with a shared look of somber satisfaction. Locke nodded. At this, they turned their eyes again to the west, and made their way, together, back to camp. Still, they did not speak.

 **Chapter 10, Part 2**

Upon returning to the basin of his troops' encampment, Roak noted two things which seemed to him unusual.

First among these observations was the fact that, despite his making no efforts to conceal his arrival, none seemed to notice it. The frontiersman thought it especially strange that, once he had entered the camp, not an eye rested upon him, nor was a single face cast in his direction. Most, it seemed, were preoccupied with the examination of the ground at their feet.

His second observation was that none in the camp appeared willing to divulge whatever secrets they had uncovered in their particular patch of the earth, or even to share the object of their search. The whole of the place was, Roak found, filled by that sort of silence which is so complete as to be achievable only in places equally as desolate as the dead plain about him. In an effort to discover the cause of these peculiarities, the frontiersman scanned the lot of faces before him for that belonging to Locke: his only personal connection among them. Spotting the boy, Roak drifted toward him.

Though the gust of his passing succeeded in stirring the clothes and the hair of those nearest it, it still seemed to Roak that his presence was felt more so than seen or heard. For a brief moment, he thought himself a ghost. The Risen's fears were given further substance upon his reaching the person of his interest, as the boy made no sign of sensing his approach, but shivered once his shadow fell upon him.

Roak noted absently that Locke was without his cloak.

Hoping (though-due to his growing fear of his own intangibility-not necessarily expecting) to receive a response, if only for the sake of dispelling his unease, Roak offered in greeting the first word that came to mind: "Hey."

Locke did not respond.

The frontiersman circled about, pondering his predicament, and turned to face his silent companion. Kneeling, he gazed quizzically at the boy's downturned face; waved his hand before it; found no response; stopped. Less confident than ever in his corporeality, Roak thrust his finger forward in an experimental jab. As one should expect, it failed to bypass the figure before him. Roak, having expected quite the opposite, was markedly relieved at this. His worry quickly returned as he noted that, despite physical prompting, the boy still had not acknowledged his presence.

"Locke" the Risen spoke again, and, again, was met with silence. He placed his hand beneath the boy's chin and forced it upward, remaining all the while wary of his own strength.

Having no choice, Locke turned his gaze, looking for a moment into the black of Roak's visor before hastily averting his eyes once more. Roak saw now that the boy's face was awash with blood, and bore the usual coloration of one that has suffered a considerable beating. Through the window of an instant, he saw in Locke's eyes a shiver of fear, made all the more violent by the aching of a pain which he had tried-and failed-to mask. This brief glimpse told Roak all that he needed to know. He saw, in the carefully-erected façade of stoicism upon the boy's face, the beginnings of a great many cracks-small at present, but growing larger. Sooner or later, this front would be shaken to pieces. His task, then, was simply to expedite its impending collapse.

"Locke," Roak repeated, holding his grip. "What is going on?"

Still, nothing.

"What happened?" the Risen pressed, driven by a mixture of curiosity, compassion, and concern.

Silence, and a single tear.

Roak released the youth from his grasp, sighed, and stood. Locke had time only for a moment of false relief before he, too, had risen to his feet, though this was done by neither his own will nor any express measure of consent. In little time at all, the two were scaling the crater's side: Roak steaming ahead with purpose; Locke dragging absently behind, barely managing to keep pace, and ignorant to his own steps.

The others watched on, drawing their eyes from the ground for the first time in hours. That is, save one, who sat as he had sat, and wept as he had wept. He was, from all others in the basin, notably set apart-by the measure of distance, and by the mark of blood.

After some time, the Wolf and his reluctant companion made their return. The two stopped atop the basin's crest, and the prior spoke, his words hushed by distance. His fellow did not loose a word, but his eyes, as before, darted about of their own accord, landing-in answer to the Wolf's unheard inquiry-upon the lonely figure of Hardy. In response, the Warlord left the boy at the ridge, and descended.

Hardy sensed none of this. He simply waited, as he had for innumerable minutes prior, for a sound which he hoped would never come: the sound of footsteps. It came, and it came in company with the Wolf. Hardy tensed as the sound-and its source-drew nearer. A shadow drifted past. He did not look up, but knew that Roak stood before him. After a moment of pause, the Warlord dropped a small object into the boy's lap.

Hardy stared at the item before him, his eyes wide.

It was a knife.

It was _the_ knife.

After allowing the boy a moment to process this, Roak spoke, his cold voice belying a fury which threatened-with the utterance of a syllable more-to burst forth, and to burn all that it touched.

"Get up."

Hardy, in keeping with the day's precedent, offered no response, save silence and sorrow. He made no move to stand.

Roak turned from the boy with effort. In lighter circumstances, the Warlord might have seen the youth, broken as he was, and offered him pity. Yet today's burden had not been a light one. Roak searched himself, as he paced away from the killer of his friend (though that title had never been pronounced between them), and found that he had only hatred to offer the wretch. Hatred-and a vengeful blade.

Whatever the manner in which Hardy sought to receive the latter of these gifts-whether with the pride of a man or with the shame of a kicked dog-, Roak resolved that he would not forgo its delivery. Hardy learned of this conviction soon thereafter, as the soundless shape of a second knife rent the air beside his head. He felt the cold touch of blood as it trickled down the length of his neck.

Realizing that surrender would do him no favors, the boy frantically snatched up the knife at his lap, and scrambled to his feet. He now looked to where the Wolf stood, some distance away, his own blade in hand. His figure was drawn into a fighting stance, and he was circling.

 _No,_ Hardy corrected his thoughts. _He was prowling._

The boy's hands began to tremble as he looked into the face of his soon-to-be-executioner. He imagined the red of his blood splashed upon the white of the Warlord's armor; now, upon the white of a wolf's fur. He imagined his flesh broken by a sweep of the Warlord's dagger; now, by the sinking of a wolf's fangs. He did not imagine, but heard, the cry that now tore from the Warlord's throat as he lunged. It was a cry of anger; of hunger; of longing for the dead. It sounded, to Hardy's ear, like the cry of a wolf.

When next he thought, Hardy found himself fallen to the earth, a knife in his gut. The Wolf was atop him, bloody as he had imagined, with one hand at the grip of his weapon and another clasped behind the boy's back, holding him in the embrace of death.

Only, Hardy was not dead.

He was, in truth, quite alive, and his ears rang with the screams of his assailant.

"Fight me!" Roak cried in anger. "Fight back! Fight back, filthy bastard!"

Though Roak did now know it, Hardy _was_ fighting back. Of course, his half-hearted efforts were quite ineffectual when pitted against the shields of the Warlord's armor-armor which would have been removed in interest of an even match, by any honorable opponent…by any Iron Lord.

Roak knew, by this time, that he _was_ no Iron Lord; was not qualified to be one; never _would_ be one.

Dwelling a moment upon these thoughts, and driven by the loss of that which never was, the Risen raised his knife to strike again-this time, to kill. Something latched onto his arm, and he halted. Turning his head, he saw the tear-streaked face of Locke, whose single hand was clasped at his wrist.

Seeing that he had gained the Wolf's attention (and knowing that he had no means of stopping him, should he lose it), the boy said, plainly and confidently: "No."

Having been pulled from the moment, and so caring little either way, Roak humored him. He lowered the hand of his knife; took Hardy's; sheathed both. Still, Locke looked at him expectantly. This puzzled the Risen, until he recalled the boy who lay dying beneath him. He stood, and looked back to his increasingly impatient companion. Then, tearing a strip from the hem of his cloak, he bandaged the sufferer's wound with the efficient almost-apathy of a field surgeon, stood, and dusted himself off. He glanced at the killer again, appraising his condition. What he saw in it, none else could tell, for he quickly turned and left without a word.

 **Chapter 10, Part 3**

It was not until morning, Roak had announced, that their host should depart in pursuit of their quarry. Until then, Locke was left to tend to the wounds of the killer of his friend. He did so in silence, but not without care.

He thought, keeping watch over the form of his fellow, that Hardy looked (in contrast to his former self) entirely without malice, and was indeed quite pale. His eyes were closed. His breathing, shallow. He had, it seemed, given up, and was content to die. His fate-though given, in word, to Locke-lay upon the whim of the moment, to be decided by the slightest shift of circumstance. Roak saw this, too, it seemed, for in each of his passing appraisals (which now came often), the Warlord had to him a look of impatience. Though he did not speak, the sum of his manner suggested two words: _Not yet._

The whole of the day went by in this way, as did-in its wake-the night, with Roak drifting between silent thought and silent observation; Locke keeping his watch; Hardy, tempting death.

By the show of dawn, Locke looked for the first time in hours upon the face of his withered charge, which he had guarded till then in the absence of sight. There was again some color in it, and some life. Life enough, Roak seemed to think, to bear the burden of travel, for it was immediately after assessing the boy's condition that the Warlord declared they should set out.

Whatever the Risen had expected, Hardy did not bear travel well at all. Locke had, with the aim of sparing his patient the inevitable exertion that would otherwise be demanded of him, attempted to carry the ailing boy. As a simple matter of muscle and weight ratios, he was destined to fail at this task. Fate pulled no favors, and he was soon upon the ground beside his living cargo. No others moved to help. None dared. Since his murdering Mason, the other refugees had avoided so much as acknowledging Hardy's existence, for fear of unknown and unknowable consequences. This left only Roak to aid the two in their endeavor. He did not.

So, Hardy had walked. Locke remained at his side throughout the journey, supporting him often, in place of a cane, and mindful to stop when he suspected need for rest. On each such occasion, the host was called to a halt by Roak's order. Still, the Warlord paid no heed to Hardy; he stopped only for Locke.

After hours of stumbling toil, the disorderly column of youths was again halted by word of the Wolf. Those within it obeyed gratefully. Many collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Hardy and Locke were among them. Tired as they were, the depths of their fatigue did not stop the brightest of the refugees from sensing something odd in their circumstances. Hardy and Locke were among _these_ , too.

The conscripts were, to the last, weary of their late wanderings, and saw little hope of a gentler road ahead. Their clothes were weathered and ragged; their shoes, worn through; the feet and the hands of a great many were bloody and frostbitten. Some were of such poor health that those about them doubted their surviving the effort at all, battle or none. Yet none of these things, the refugees knew, were cause for their stopping. That decision, as the rationale behind it, rested solely with the Wolf. This knowledge sparked, in those who possessed it, a great deal of unease.

For a span of some hours now, the Warlord had appeared quite on edge. He would, in their marching, easily outstrip his followers; rebound to the place of the furthest straggler; outstrip them again…all the while remaining silent as to his purpose. He made a practice of pacing about in this way, marching to and fro, stopping only to observe the murderer's condition or-more rarely-to listen. It was with the latter of these tasks that he was presently engaged.

Locke watched for some time, just as many others, as Roak paced. He appeared plagued by some manner of indecision: the final product of that day's mounting impatience. With time, his movements grew more mechanical, pulling more of his focus from his evidently unpleasant musings. After what felt hours, but may as easily have been minutes or days, the Risen snapped, and broke from the rut which he had so long tread. He made, with sudden purpose, for the place where Locke and his patient sat, resting. As was now ritual, he made note of the latter's state.

Apparently finding in it something previously lacked, Roak broke precedent, and seized Hardy by the arm. The boy, as shocked by this development as any other, hadn't any thought to resist. He was quickly brought to stand before a low stone, and was there held steady. The Warlord before him unsheathed a knife: the very same that had ended a life the day prior.

Locke, having at this time come near enough to the others' place to witness the drawing of the blade, began to protest.

Roak paid his loyalist no heed. He looked instead into the face of the one before him, focused-to the exclusion of all else-upon the cause of justice.

The Warlord had already conceded, of course, that the boy should be let live. He had conceded, too, that he should remain under his protection, rather than be sent away in exile. Roak thought both of these concessions to be considerable mercies. So far as he was concerned, he who engages in the act of murder should himself be killed in turn. For Locke's sake (though he knew not why the boy should advocate the case of the killer of his friend), he had altered his vengeful course from one of total recompense to one of a mere token return.

Hardy, then, would not be made to pay his debts in full. Still, he must be punished-if not an eye for an eye, then he should extract the toll of a tooth, or…

Roak thought, suddenly, of the appropriate rate of exchange. He pulled Hardy's arm to the stone before him, mimicking the boy's own act of some uncounted days before.

The Risen smiled darkly, and thought: _As penance for the life of another: the hand that had taken it_.

Again, metal fell to flesh and to bone, and the weaker were severed.

Hardy loosed a scream. Roak made no move to stop it.

The Ambrosians were yet leagues away.

They could not hear him.

* * *

As the bright of that day drew into the dim of dusk, Roak found himself standing upon a gray knoll, his host at his back, gazing across those last few miles of plain which separated him from the Ambrosians' encampment. Distant as he was, the Risen did not struggle to see the enemy force.

The refugees saw it, too, and were stricken by a sort of wonder which served to momentarily suspend their dread. The army before them was much greater in size, and grander, than they had dared to imagine. It resembled in form some manner of gargantuan crown, cast from the brow of a tyrant of incomprehensible size. The banners of golden thread-their symbols indistinguishable at this distance-which marked the camp's perimeter looked, to the youths, to be the ornament's bounds. The machines of war dotted about it shone as jewels with the light of the setting sun. Yet this crown was not all splendor. The inhabitants of the place, who writhed about constantly, as if a mass of wicked thorns or the worms of decay, added to the piece a sense of morbidity. The herds of beasts-horses, mainly-scattered at the camp's fringe were by many likened to drops of ancient blood, having dried from a forgotten crimson to the dull shades of their present coloration. There was, they knew, soon to be much more blood pooled about that crown. Fresh blood. _Their_ blood.

With these latter observations, the boys' dread returned in full, and they began to flee from the hill, and from the sights that it offered: sights both of what was and what was to come; different sights, within the mind of each who saw them, but gruesome, all.

Roak had no quarrel with the refugees' retreat. He, in fact, found it rather convenient. Had they not left of their own will, they would soon have left of his, as he knew that his intended course would not reward the keeping of company.

The frontiersman descended from his modest perch and advanced upon the camp.

Weaving about so as to break up his movement, and wary to avoid too sudden an approach, he drew ever nearer to his destination. Though he was in the light of the sun, it was by this time so low as to cause little trouble, and he was not seen.

Roak had drawn near enough to Ikoris' force to gain the faculty of his hearing in addition to his sight, and was engaged in absorbing his ears' communications, when a figure suddenly struck into his field of view.

The newcomer set across the plain at an impressive speed, considering his appearance and all that it implied. His gait, though quick, showed signs of fatigue. Indeed, it was more a stumble than a sprint, propelling him forward by the force of his own weight rather than by any degree of muscle or motive power, demanding of him only the spark that had set it in motion. He held, grasped tightly in his right hand, a trailing mass of heavy cloth, as weathered and worn as himself. It was of a rich purple hue.

As this stranger met his crowded mass of fellows, they parted, and he passed into the camp without slowing. Roak, lacking the degree of elevation necessary for his continued viewing of the unfolding events, lost sight of the figure. His position having proven inadequate, the Risen sought out another.

Finding that which he desired after a short and frenzied search, he looked again upon the courier, who bowed wearily before Ikoris, wavered, and fell. He rose again after some struggle, and-proffering the scrap of fabric to his superior-voiced his intelligence. The messenger's speech, slurred by his want for rest, was hardly audible to Roak, and nothing could be made of what little was heard. Neither Ikoris nor his gathered lessers shared in his difficulty, however, and Roak managed to glean from their reaction some semblance of the words' meaning.

Whatever had been said, the message struck the camp as a meteor: sending waves of shock outward from its point of impact; spreading its revelations throughout by way of word as a fire through a forest, leaving chaos in its wake. There was, though, at the thing's epicenter, a place ringed in ruin, but as yet untouched by any finger of flame. This was, you could say, the crater-for there was in it a void far greater than ever could be blasted into a bed of earth, made all the greater by the contrast between itself and its surroundings. It was not a physical void; could not be expressed in such terms as the absence of sand or silt. It was, instead, the absence of emotion, and it was seen in the eyes of the Lord of Ambros-those eyes which held an abyss so deep, and yet filled with so bright a flame, as to break and to blind all who dared search its depths.

Roak saw all of this, and-knowing his enemies to be as much, and thus thinking this disaster a thing to be taken hold of-drew nearer to the site of the sensation, anxious to learn of its nature. He heard-in tones more distinct than those prior, and more charged-a great deal of concern voiced by the crowd's most prominent figures. These leaders, Risen all, were quickly split into two camps. First of these groups, and (as sustainers of the status quo) most numerous, were the loyalists. Second-a new sight among the ranks of Ikoris' Chosen-were the insubordinates, who lingered in that gray of uncertainty which separates fear from willful defiance.

"They're dead," a member of the latter group announced, his voice flat and forlorn. "They're all dead."

His fellows had, of course, learned this as soon as he. Still-as if his stating the fact of reality were all that made it so-they were roused, by his words, from their dull stupor, and were set into a sudden frenzy. Some exclaimed, despairingly, that the cause was lost. For some, it was. The forces of Ambros having never before suffered any measure of defeat in battle, the loss of an entire host was akin to a deathblow: it was the first domino to fall in a sequence which surely spelled their collective doom.

With this in mind, a few-yearning to escape their seemingly imminent deposition at the hands of the Wolves-broke from the camp without pretense, denouncing their allegiance and setting into the night.

Ikoris, for reasons all his own, made no move to stop them. His loyalists, either blind to his purpose or too angry to care, did not hesitate in their pursuit of the deserters. The latter soon found their intended path of exodus cut off by a wall of bodies. Despite this, they altered their course none whatever. In response, the wall soon sprouted with the thorns of thirsty blades, and with the barrels of a great many guns. The deserters armed themselves in turn. Neither force endeavored to avoid their impending collision, and so battle soon broke.

The one true Lord of Ambros looked on as the flash of swords and the cries of rifles tore the calm of the night to shreds of chaos. He saw the first of the traitors felled by the first of his loyalists' blades; watched as the Ghost of the same was blasted to ruin; heard the thunder of guns fired by others' hands in the defense of his honor…and felt nothing.

His only reaction was to say, within the depths of his mind, that this was simply the inevitable will of fate.

Still, such inner-conflict was an ugly waste, and he did not care to see it.

Ikoris turned his eyes from his followers' infighting to the night beyond, where a follower of another sort sat, unseen, and watched in silent satisfaction as the blood of his Chosen spilled over the earth.

 **End of Chapter 10**


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